l&'^y&SiGV^V^ 


w«sG^aec^«e 


(LIBRARY] 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

!       SAN  DIEGO        ! 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 


BACK 
TO   ARCADY 


FRANK  WALLER  ALLEN 


YORK 

GEOSSET    &    DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1905,  by  HERBERT  B.  TURNER  &  Co. 


ENTERED  AT  STATIONERS*  HALL,  LONDON 


Published  October,  1905 


Sscond  Edition,  Nov.  6, 


WHILE  this  is  but 
small  guerdon  for 
the  service  of  love  your 
life  has  given  mine,  I 
bring  it,  with  this  truth, 
believing  it  will  gladden 
you  to  know  that  if  my 
name  posse  sses  aught  of 
honour,  or  my  heart  of 
kindness,  or  my  hands 
of  gentleness,  you,  dear 
Mother,  are  the  cause  of 
it  all. 


CONTENTS 

My  Lady  o'  Roses I 

After  the  Silence  of  the  Years     .      .  II 

An  Orchard  in  Arcady      ....  Ill 

My  Lady  and  Lovingkindness     .      .  IV 

Back  to  Arcady V 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

"Two  small,  white  hands  stealing 
over  my  face,  and  closing  my 
eyes"  .  .  •  Frontispiece 

"So,  in  dream-words,  I  took  my 
Marcia  back  there  in  the  spring- 
tune"  72 

"Wafted  an  impetuous  little  good- 
by  kiss,  across  the  field "  .  .  107 

"And  whose,  Louis,  is  it?"  she 
asked 155 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 


MY  LADY  0»   ROSES 


>ESTERDAY  was  the 
first  of  June.  All  day 
great  clouds  floated 
about  the  sky  and  near 
evening  it  rained.  Im 
mediately  before  night 
the  gloom  in  the  west  was  swept  away 
by  some  invisible  destiny,  and  the  sunset 
crimson-patched  the  hills  and  rain  be 
spattered  homes  until  it  seemed  that  a 
halo  of  golden  glory  lingered  about  the 
very  brow  of  the  village  itself. 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

The  little  river,  that  usually  comes 
winding  from  somewhere  between  the 
trees  and  hills,  shimmers  slowly  by  in  a 
cool  placid  way,  and  disappears  between 
more  hills  and  trees,  was  making  a  most 
futile  attempt  to  whip  itself  into  a  muddy 
passion.  The  limestone  turnpike,  lying 
between  the  rows  of  dripping  maples  and 
honey-locust  bordering  the  old  flagstone 
sidewalks,  was  a-glisten  with  tiny  rivulets ; 
while  everywhere,  from  the  blossoming 
bluegrass  pastures,  and  the  foliage-laden 
trees,  to  the  wet  church  steeples,  reflect 
ing  the  rays  of  the  passing  sun,  the  world 
seemed  to  be  smiling  through  tears  like  a 
heart-broken  woman  suddenly  made  thrice 
happy  with  the  marks  of  her  sorrow  lin 
gering  in  her  eyes.  Like  the  wild  caprices 
of  a  thoughtless  girl,  a  shower  in  June  is 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  moods  in  nature, 
both  a  deal  alike,  sweetening  life  with 
an  apparent  pout.  A  pretty  face,  happy 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

among  the  tendrils  of  silken-soft  brown 
hair  playing  around  the  glowing  cheeks, 
is  suddenly  dropped  upon  an  elbow  bent 
to  pillow  it.  There  is  a  little  shudder  and 
a  dash  of  tears;  then  you  kiss  the  bit  of 
lovely  neck  left  bare  above  the  lace  about 
it,  and  the  laughing  eyes  are  yours  again, 
while  her  lips  are  only  redder  and  sweeter 
from  the  storm :  June  coquetting  with  the 
witchery  of  the  blue  summer  sky. 

Likewise,  as  there  are  no  storms,  only 
showers,  in  this  season  of  blossoms,  so  in 
the  heart  of  a  girl,  living  the  June-time  of 
her  womanhood,  there  is  little  guile. 
Neither  one  nor  the  other  brings  aught 
but  the  perfume  of  the  flower.  There 
fore  I  should  be  glad  of  the  coming  of 
My  Lady  o'  Roses,  and  welcome  her  as  is 
due  the  daughter  of  my  long-time  friend. 
I  have  never  seen  this  child  of  the  girl  I 
knew,  with  all  the  heart  of  me,  in  my 
youth.  I  am  trying  to  be  happy  and  yet, 
[3] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

try  as  I  may,  hope  sinks  within  me  when 
I  think  that  this  little  maid  is  to  find  her 
home  beneath  my  roof  and  I  am  to  be 
her  protector. 

Thirty  years  ago  it  was  said  of  me  that 
I  was  as  gallant  a  beau  as  ever  bowed 
over  a  fan*  lady's  hand;  and  now,  as  for 
that,  my  memories  savour  delightfully  of 
silk  hose  and  white  cockades,  sweet  ladies, 
red  lips  and  patches  —  all  mingled  with 
occasional  odours  of  hyacinths,  holly 
hocks  and  roses.  To-day,  however,  I  am 
an  old  man  living  in  a  generation  that  is 
past.  All  of  my  life  has  been  spent  in 
indulging  my  whims  and  humouring  my 
fancies.  I  am  more  years  past  fifty  than 
I  like  to  acknowledge,  and  now  a  girl  of 
twenty  is  coming  to  upset  the  habits  and 
routine  of  a  lifetime. 

That  she  will  like  my  village,  where 
great  sunflowers  and  hollyhocks  bow  and 
courtesy  from  the  vine-covered  fences  as 
[41 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

one  lingers  along  the  flagstone  sidewalks, 
I  haven't  a  doubt,  for  the  old  town  is 
quaintly  picturesque.  The  main  street  is 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  limestone 
turnpike  that  winds  into  the  town  from 
blossoming  bluegrass  pastures,  takes  unto 
itself  the  dignity  of  pavements  on  either 
side,  then  drops  over  a  bit  of  a  knoll  and 
disappears  again  amid  other  bluegrass 
pastures.  Its  significance  is  so  great, 
however,  that  in  the  earliest  days  it  easily 
decided  the  location  of  the  store,  the  old 
est  homes  and  churches.  The  street,  of 
course,  was  not  a  turnpike  in  those  days. 
It  was  merely  a  great  highway,  made 
'most  past  use  in  winter  by  mud  and  in 
summer  by  dust.  There  were  two  sea 
sons  only,  during  which  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  ride  or  walk  upon  it;  they  being  fall 
and  early  spring. 

Yet  because  this  road,  connecting  one 
of  the  old  river  towns  with  Lexington, 
[5] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

passed  over  the  Kingston  through  a  cov 
ered  wooden  bridge  and  climbed  a  long 
sloping  hill  for  a  straight  mile,  the  town 
was  built.  All  of  this  seemed  very  reason 
able  to  the  settlers,  for  there  was  a  mile 
of  road ;  the  hill  was  so  long,  with  a  grade 
so  gradual  as  to  be  barely  perceptible; 
and  the  glimmering  little  river,  which 
wound  around  the  southern  base  watering 
a  verdant  countryside,  was  already  as 
good  as  running  a  mill  in  the  eyes  of  the 
enterprising  pioneers.  All  of  which  is 
true  to-day.  Afterwhile  the  mud  road 
became  a  turnpike,  for  there  is  much 
limestone  in  the  bluegrass  country.  Then 
it  was  perfectly  natural  that  everyone 
should  want  to  build  along  the  road,  and 
so  they  did,  until  the  mile  of  slope  had 
been  taken  and  the  friendly  expanse  of 
limestone  had  dropped  around  a  wooded 
hillside  running  on  toward  the  next  vil 
lage.  There  they  stopped,  for  the  turnpike 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

ceased  to  be  adequate  for  a  street  of  any 
dignity.  At  the  same  time  the  growth  of 
Bluefield  came  to  an  end,  and  immediately 
the  village  became  old.  ...  All  of  this, 
as  I  have  said  before,  I  believe  will  find 
favour  in  my  lady's  eyes. 

Also  I  am  sure  that  she  will  love  this 
old  mansion,  erected  by  my  fathers  long 
before  the  village  was  built  upon  the  hill, 
with  its  huge  Doric  pillars  that  help  to 
shade  the  casement  windows  glowing 
softly  through  the  green-massed  ivy.  This 
old  home  rests  far  back  in  the  yard  from 
the  turnpike,  as  if  it  held  itself  aloof  from 
its  fellow  hearths  of  less  colonial  dignity. 
With  its  large  wings  to  the  right  and  left, 
the  negroes  quartered  in  the  rear,  and  the 
old  rose-garden,  with  the  field  of  poppies 
to  the  side,  it  would  warm  a  heart  far  less 
fanciful  than  that  of  a  romantic  young 
girl.  If  you  doubt  the  tenderness  of  my 
old  house  come  some  day  and  take  a  peep, 
[7]  " 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

from  the  gate,  up  through  the  arched  lilac 
bushes  that  border  the  walk,  at  the  great 
old  oaken  door  with  its  brass  knocker 
hanging  there,  and  see  if  you  do  not  find 
a  gracious  smile  of  welcome  flitting  some 
where  --  you  cannot  tell  precisely  where 
-  either  about  the  lilacs,  or  the  knocker, 
or,  perhaps,  pervading  the  whole  atmos 
phere  of  the  house.  Then,  there  is  my 
old  friend  Doctor  Blossom  with  his  courtly 
manner,  his  bit  of  romance  with  Barbara 
Holly,  and  last,  but  by  no  means  the  least, 
his  quinine  that's  a  deal  good  drug  for 
one  so  bitter.  With  all  of  this,  I  say,  My 
Lady  o'  Roses  will  be  pleased. 

With  me,  however,  it  will  be  different. 
Because  it  pleases  me  to  continue  the 
fashion  of  living  after  the  manner  of  the 
time  when  the  heart  of  me  was  young,  I 
choose  to  wear  a  square  coat  with  great 
cuffs,  the  vest  of  the  court,  short  breeches 
and  silk  stockings  with  silver-buckled 
[8] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

shoes.  When  I  was  a  gallant  beau  this 
was  the  style,  then  passing,  worn  of  men* 
I  was  yet  in  my  youth  when  the  dress 
somewhat  after  the  manner  of  this  day 
became  the  mode.  I  like  this  that  I  am 
now  wearing  because  it  seems  to  me  more 
sensible.  Then,  there  are  the  memories. 
Ah,  I  believe,  after  all,  it  is  the  memories ! 
At  any  rate  she  will  laugh  at  the  sight  of 
me  and  despise  my  wig  and  snuff-box. 
Yet  she  is  my  trust  and  there's  an  end  of 
it.  If  she  needs  be  loved,  there's  the 
heart  of  me ;  if  it's  sickness,  why,  there's 
Blossom. 

As  I  have  said,  I  knew  her  mother  in 
the  long  ago.  She  herself  was  but  twenty 
when  last  I  saw  her,  and  yet  to-day  hers 
is  the  only  face  that  remains  clear  in  my 
memory.  Shortly  after  I  saw  Drucilla, 
for  the  last  tune,  she  married  master 
William  Dudley,  the  companion  of  my 
youth  and  the  friend  of  my  manhood. 

[9] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

Immediately  he  took  the  lady  to  the  old 
house  and  made  her  sole  mistress  there; 

for  the  young  Colonel's  father  and  mother 

j        & 

had  died  some  four  years  before,  within 
eight  weeks  of  one  another.  The  talk  is 
current,  even  unto  this  day,  that  Drucilla 
was  the  fairest  mistress  that  ever  crossed 
a  Dudley  threshold.  For  a  few  years 
theirs  was  the  happiest  home  in  all  Ken 
tucky;  for  she  was  good  and  beautiful, 
and  he  loved  her  with  the  love  that  reveals 
all  of  the  gentle,  peaceful  truths  of  life. 
Then  when  little  Marcia  Dudley  —  My 
Lady  oj  Roses  —  was  born,  the  mother 
died,  and  for  awhile  the  light  of  the 
husband's  heart  went  out. 

"It  is  in  the  silence  that  follows  the 
storm,"  says  the  proverb,  "and  not  the 
silence  before  it,  that  we  should  search 
for  the  budding  flower."  And  sorrow  is 
silent.  So  terribly  silent  that  the  heart 
hears  the  soul's  unutterable  cry  of  an- 

[10] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

guish.  Soon,  however,  the  father  found 
the  budding  flower  in  the  little  daughter 
who  cooed  and  smiled  and  pointed  with 
her  tiny  fingers  to  his  haggard  face,  as  if 
to  say,  "Why  look  so  friendless,  so  love 
less,  when  you  have  me  for  your  very 
own?  I  am  now  your  Lady  o'  Roses." 
When,  for  the  first  time,  this  thought 
found  place  in  his  suffering  soul  he  hugged 
the  wee  girl  closely  to  him  and  his  sorrow 
became  beautiful,  and  in  place  of  suffering 
there  came  a  great  peacefulness  that  sur 
passed  understanding.  So,  as  the  years 
flew  by,  they  made  out  of  her  a  wonderful 
bit  of  a  girl  with  much  beauty,  I've  heard, 
and  a  merry  heart.  This  lady,  however, 
could  not  have  been  more  than  fifteen 
years  of  age  when  the  father,  dying,  sent 
me,  post-hastes  a  letter  begging  me  to 
take  his  only  child  and  guard  her  as  my 
own.  Remembering  only  the  love  of  my 
youth  and  the  friendship  he  bore  me  in 
E"] 


,:-.      -VT 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

the  elder  days,  I  consented.  For  reasons, 
which  I  may  hereinafter  make  clear,  I 
had  the  child  educated  and  sent  abroad 
without  ever  having  seen  her.  Now  she's 
tired  of  it  all,  she  writes  me  from  Paris, 
and  is  coming  to  "our  home,"  she  puts  it, 
to  live  with  me.  Coming  home  to  a  soft 
hearted  old  grower  of  roses.  Yet  this  is 
June  and  there's  the  shower!  It  augurs 
well. 

I  will  be  frank.  It  is  not  because  of 
the  coming  of  My  Lady  o'  Roses,  who  is 
twenty  and  who  I  know  is  round-limbed 
and  sweet-faced;  it  isn't  that  my  old 
heart  hasn't  longed  for  the  like  o'  this, 
these  years;  neither  am  I  afraid  she  will 
laugh  at  the  manner  of  me,  and  all,  that 
I  do  not  want  her.  No,  none  of  these 
things!  It  is  because  I  fear  this  little 
maid  o?  twenty  will  come  to  me  in  the 
quaint  fashion  of  the  long-time  ago,  with 
the  rare  and  tender  beauty  in  her  face 

[12] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

that  was  her  mother's  when  the  heart  of 
me  was  young. 

II 

I  feel  as  if  I  own  Bluefield.  My  sire,  in 
his  youth,  was  the  possessor  of  every  foot 
of  its  earth.  Of  course  when  it  came  to 
me  the  villagers  were  the  proprietors  and 
I  but  master  of  the  old  family  mansion, 
its  great  yard  and  the  field  beside  it. 
That  which  remains  of  my  grandsire's 
plantation  lies  in  the  bank  down  town  in 
the  shape  of  a  small  deposit  which  enables 
me  to  maintain  the  house  of  my  fathers 
somewhat  after  their  fashion. 

The  townspeople,  in  that  most  of  them 
have  been  my  neighbours  for  long  and 
know  the  simple  story  of  my  life  —  for 
once  gossips  having  done  me  a  goodly 
turn  —  allow  me  the  pleasure  of  their 
pastures  for  my  roaming  as  though  they 
did  not  hold  the  title  to  the  land  whereon 
i  i*  1 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

I  trod.  But  after  all  I  still  have  left  'most 
everything  to  my  heart's  desire.  I've 
the  home  that  for  more  than  a  century 
has  hidden  the  sorrows  and  has  been  the 
abiding  place  of  the  joys  of  my  ancestors, 
cherishing  the  hopes  of  a  long  line  of 
good  and  manly  gentlemen  and  keeping 
holy  the  loves  of  women  some  of  whom 
were  the  most  beautiful  in  the  land.  Then 
I've  a  few  horses  left,  for  in  them,  too,  is 
the  spirit  of  my  sires,  who  saw  all  the  ma 
terial  beauty  God  gave  the  world  through 
the  face  of  a  woman  and  the  grace  of 
a  thoroughbred.  To  them  their  women 
were  to  be  most  beautiful  that  after  them 
they  might  judge  the  action  of  their  horses. 
Therefore  were  I  to  be  master  of  the 
mansion  without  also  being  master  of  a 
stable  the  blood  of  my  fathers  would 
refuse  to  warm  my  body. 

Yet,  as  was  the  glory  of  these  men  of 
old,  I  have  no  woman  to  lend  the  beauty 
[14] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

of  her  person  to  animate  my  silent  life; 
to  light  the  household  by  the  brilliance  of 
her  eyes,  or  make  more  wholesome  my 
very  soul  by  the  gentle  sweetness  of  her 
presence.  Aye,  did  you  not  know  about 
the  coming  of  My  Lady  o'  Roses  I  fear  I 
should  cause  you  to  believe  that  my  home 
is  too  devoid  of  joy  to  hear  more  of  it. 
Therefore  I  hasten  to  assure  you  that, 
even  if  Marcia  were  not  coming,  you  are 
wrong.  That  if  I  haven't  a  woman's 
laughter  to  awaken  the  echoes  of  the  old 
mansion,  and  her  eyes  to  look  sweetly 
into  yours  when  you  are  my  guest,  and 
the  passion-waking  beauty  of  her  lips  for 
the  kisses  of  my  love,  that  I  have  the  dear 
memory  of  it  all  which  is  wonderfully 
sweeter  to  me  than  could  be  the  pleasure 
of  her  presence  to  you.  Then  I've  that 
which  takes  the  place  of  a  woman  —  not 
she,  you  must  understand  —  but  of  a 
woman  as  nearly  as  one  thing  less  beau- 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

tiful  may  supplant  that  which  is  most 
beautiful.  I've  my  rose-garden,  in  which 
grow  and  blossom  my  roses.  They  are 
my  women.  There  is  my  Marguerite,  my 
Rosalind  and  Juliet.  And  sometimes,  I'm 
thinking,  when  old  Dinah  becomes  over 
vehement  in  the  scolding  of  her  master, 
that  after  all  my  roses  have  suited  me 
better.  Then  there  is  one  man  without 
whose  friendship  I  could  not  have  met 
courageously  the  years  of  my  life.  The 
very  medicines  of  Henri  Blossom  are  good 
for  the  soul. 

As  the  seasons  pass  me  by  this  green 
old  garden  is  filled  with  hyacinths,  violets, 
and  tulips  —  in  red  and  gold  —  crocus, 
crowfoot,  loose-strife  and  St.  John's-wort 
-  all  of  these  and  others  in  the  spring 
time's  wholesome  days;  then  the  purple 
fringed  iris,  life-everlasting  and  late  berry- 
briars  come  in  midsummer;  and  the  fall, 

yellow-decked  with  goldenrod,  the  jewel- 
[16] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

weed  and  gentians,  asters,  and  the  crimson 
splendour  of  leaves  a-falling.  All  of  these, 
and  more,  I  have  said,  come  and  go,  be  it 
in  the  fragile  freshness  of  spring  or  the 
ripe  haziness  of  Indian  summer.  This 
entire  time  the  roses  are  blooming,  radiant 
and  resplendent  in  the  wonder  of  their 
beauty.  The  Maytime  blossom  of  the 
apple  trees  is  all  blown  away ;  the  milk 
weed  casts  its  lightsome  seed  adrift;  and 
the  pollen  of  the  goldenrod  makes  yellow 
the  stone  of  the  garden  wall;  but  the 
roses  bud  and  unfold  the  warmer  sunny 
days  through,  and  are  subject  to  the  air 
of  no  season  other  than  brings  the  frost 
of  winter. 

Quite  recently,  because  of  a  horse 
whose  legs  failed  in  their  fleetness,  hin 
dering  me  the  winning  of  a  goodly  wager, 
and,  because  of  the  arrival  at  'most  the 
same  time  of  a  rare  lot  of  plants  for  my 
garden,  I  discovered  I'd  have  to  emulate 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

the  example  of  my  sire  and  part  with  my 
field,  or  lose  the  promised  roses.  There 
fore,  some  two  weeks  ago  by  my  calendar, 
I  sent  a  letter  to  young  Henri  Blossom, 
nephew  to  my  good  doctor  in  the  near-by 
city,  and  asked  him  to  advertise  my  field. 
In  this  announcement,  which  may  seem 
somewhat  full  of  words  to  you,  part 
through  my  desire  to  make  attractive 
the  surroundings,  and  part  that  my  pen 
always  lingers  lovingly  over  anything 
having  to  do  with  Bluefield,  I  told  of  the 
green  and  blossoming  countryside,  bor 
dering  my  little  laughing  river,  with  now 
and  then  a  wooded  pasture  stretching 
away  to  the  hills,  which  form  the  wonder- 
waking  beauty  of  the  valley. 

"There  are  villages,  of  course,  at  inter 
vals,"  I  said,  "giving  a  glimpse  of  flat-rock 
sidewalks  with  fennel  and  peppergrass 
growing  along  each  side  of  its  central 

path,    while    old-fashioned    homes    peep 
[18] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

over  the  bank  and  through  the  willows. 
.  .  .  Now  it  may  interest  you  to  know  that 
on  the  most  beautiful  bit  of  this  stream, 
just  within  the  quaint  old  village  of  Blue- 
field,  there  is  for  sale  a  field.  The  land, " 
I  wrote,  "  covers  ten  acres  and  there  are 
many  elms  and  maples  with  a  host  of 
apple  trees."  I  said  "host  of  apple  trees" 
for  there  were  some  eight  or  ten  gnarled 
and  knotted  bearers  of  this  fruit  remained 
of  the  once  great  orchard  of  my  grandsire. 
And  then,  in  season,  there  are  my  poppies, 
silken-soft  and  crimson,  that  lift  then- 
sleepy  faces  to  the  blue  of  the  sky.  All 
of  these  things  I  wrote  young  Blossom, 
and  waited. 

This  morning  I  began  the  placing  of 
plants  I  had  saved  by  deciding  to  sell  the 
field.  My  mood  was  not  a  good  one  for 
the  cultivation  of  roses.  I  was  not  at  all 
pleased  with  the  thought  that  'most  any 
day  the  playground  of  my  youth  might 
[19] 


jtfACK  TO  ARCADY 

become  another's  property.  This  fit  of 
ill-humour,  coupled  with  the  interest  of 
the  work,  was  the  probable  reason  that  I 
did  not  hear  the  approach  of  footsteps, 
for  I  was  startled  upon  suddenly  hearing 
a  voice  say,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but 
are  you  the  owner  of  this  property?" 

I  did  not  answer  for  'most  a  minute  as 
my  indignation  was  near  beyond  my  con 
trol.  To  think  this  vapid,  unenlightened 
dealer  in  real  estate  had  invaded  my  rose- 
garden.  That  he  would  bring  the  sordid- 
ness  of  his  commercial  world  there  and 
attempt  the  driving  of  a  bargain  in  a 
garden  of  great  blossoming  roses.  All  the 
sentiment  of  my  nature  rebelled  at  the 
very  thought  of  it. 

I  arose  and  looked  at  this  prospective 
purchaser  determined  to  tell  him  that  I 
had  nothing,  absolutely  nothing  for  sale. 

"Yes,"  I  at  last  answered,  "I  own  the 
property." 

[20] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

"You  advertised  this  field  for  sale,  I 
believe,"  he  said,  pointing  toward  my 
apple  trees  across  the  hedge. 

"A  mistake!  A  mistake!"  I  said  as 
gruffly  as  I  might.  "I  have  nothing 
whatever  for  sale,  sir!" 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed  softly.  "I  again 
ask  you  to  pardon  me.  I  —  I  am  sorry 
I  have  made  this  mistake." 

"Don't  suffer  any  uneasiness,"  I  re 
plied,  "only  watch  as  you  go  out  being 
careful  not  to  let  your  clothing  brush 
against  my  bushes." 

I  am  ashamed  to  this  day  of  that  speech. 
It  was  one  of  the  few  times  in  my  life  I 
have  not  been  all  of  a  gentleman. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said,  and  walked 
away  toward  the  gate. 

Now  I've  a  very  tender  place  in  my 

heart  for  jacqueminots.    I  do  not  see  that 

it  is  necessary  to  say  why;  but  I'd  have 

you  know  that  it  is  there.     And  just  within 

[21] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

my  garden  gate  I  think  I  have  the  most 
beautiful  variety  of  them  I  have  ever 
known.  They  have  had  my  care  and 
culture  for  many  years. 

Well,  when  this  stranger  reached  the 
jacqueminots  he  stopped  quite  still  for 
probably  one  minute  gazing  at  them,  his 
face  beaming  in  genuine  admiration. 
Then,  as  if  recollecting  that  he  had  been 
almost  ordered  from  the  garden,  he 
quickly  turned  and  continued  toward  the 
street.  Dropping  everything  that  I  held 
I  started  running,  with  a  loss  of  much 
dignity  and  an  inconsistent  regard  for 
rose  bushes.  The  man  was  'most  to  the 
front  gate  before  I  succeeded  in  catching 
him. 

"Come,"  I  said  touching  him  upon  the 
arm.  "Come;  I've  a  notion  that  I  may 
sell  the  field  after  all." 

So  we  returned  more  slowly  to  sit  upon 
a  bench  just  without  the  garden's  gate, 

[22] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

And,  though  the  roses  could  not  be  seen, 
the  air  was  wonderfully  wholesome  with 
the  pervading  sweetness  of  their  perfume. 

Ill 

I  thank  God  for  dreams.  They  are  the 
lotus  of  our  eventless  existence,  the  anti 
dote  for  blasted  hopes  and  the  flower 
whose  perfume  brings  oblivion  to  yester 
day's  regret  and  to-morrow's  pain.  I  bow 
my  head.  After  all  it  is  my  poppies  that 
bring  forgetfulness.  So  I  am  ever  grateful 
for  the  dreams  and  the  sentiments,  be 
they  seen  through  the  curling  haze  o'  the 
tobacco  in  my  pipe,  in  the  embers  and 
ashes  of  the  grate,  or  in  the  silken-soft 
petals  of  my  roses.  ...  I  cannot  deny 
that  'most  all  my  life  I  have  bended  my 
knee  to  dream-things,  and  have  offered 
my  sacrifices  upon  the  altar  of  the  beau 
tiful.  Men  first  live  for  ideals,  then 
[23] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

ambition,  and  lastly  for  appearances. 
Destiny  has  kept  me  young  in  one  respect 
-I  have  never  ceased  to  believe  in  my 
dreams  of  the  ideal. 

Therefore  it  was  purely  the  sentimental 
in  me  that  caused  the  recalling  of  this 
stranger  whom  I  had  rebuffed  rudely  but 
a  moment  before.  It  was  a  day-dream 
of  a  vast  friendship  and  an  appreciative 
companion.  Maybe  it  was  the  looks  of 
him  that  helped.  His  face  bore  the  marks 
of  many  things.  There  was  good  breeding 
first  of  all,  and  culture  and  refinement  and 
understanding.  There  was  a  bit  of  dissi 
pation,  too.  Then  there  was  his  closely 
cut  hah*,  once  black,  but  now  white- 
patched  about  the  temples,  speaking 
plainly  of  a  life  of  unusual  activity.  His 
features  were  those  of  a  young  man,  but 
they  bore  the  stamp  of  some  suffering 
and  much  sorrow.  A  man  who  had 
long  overcome  the  little  early  reverses 
[24] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

that  at  first  make  life  so  disappoint 
ing,  but  afterward  sweeten  it  with  beau 
tiful  memories. 

He  is  now  my  neighbour  in  that  he  has 
bought  my  field.  I  have  read  somewhere 
that  one  should  love  one's  neighbour  as 
one's  self,  and  I'm  trying.  I  think  I 
succeeded  a  bit  on  yesterday  when  I  said 
to  him: 

"Will  you  come  into  my  home  and 
share  it  with  me  until  you  have  completed 
your  cottage  in  the  field?" 

"  Only  upon  condition,"  he  answered. 
"May  I  sometimes  just  go  out  to  the 
hedge  and  look  through  it  into  your  rose- 
garden?" 

"No,"  I  replied,  placing  one  hand  upon 
my  heart  and  showing  him,  with  a  cour 
tesy,  through  the  gate.  "No;  but,  if  it 
pleases  you,  sir,  you  may  come  inside  my 
garden  and  meet  every  rose  that  blossoms 
there." 

[25] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

With  a  smile  he  walked  through  the 
gate  and  together  we  passed  up  the  walk 
beneath  the  oaks  and  chestnuts  that  shel 
tered  the  proud,  but  ever  courteous,  heads 
of  my  sires.  It  was  good  of  my  neigh 
bour  to  forgive  so  kindly.  Did  you  ever 
know  that  it  is  the  little  kindnesses  that 
make  the  only  happy  moments  of  our 
life?  I  say  "happy  moments,"  for  in 
your  world,  I've  a  notion,  happy  days  - 
holding  in  utter  contempt  happy  weeks 
and  years  —  are  the  inventions  of  poets' 
minds.  There  is  no  supreme  joy  in  the 
big  events  of  life.  It  all  lies  in  the  littlest 
ones. 

It  has  been  the  custom  in  our  home  for 
generations,  upon  coming  under  the  roof 
for  the  first  time,  that  the  master  person 
ally  conduct  a  guest  to  the  bed-chambers. 
And  now,  after  the  manner  of  my  sires, 
I  showed  Louis  to  his  rooms.  As  we 

passed  down  the  hall  he  courteously  lin- 
[26] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

gered,  now  and  then,  to  gaze  upon  the 
portrait  of  some  of  the  Marshtons  of  an 
elder  day  than  my  own.  The  walls  are 
fairly  covered  with  canvases  and  most  of 
them  are  by  masters.  In  passing,  my 
guest  inadvertly  looked  into  the  blue-room 
that  had  been  prepared,  and  was  awaiting 
the  coming  of  My  Lady  o'  Roses.  Im 
mediately  before  Marcia  left  for  Europe 
she  sent  to  me,  for  safe  keeping,  a  canvas 
that  had  been  hung  quite  recently  on  the 
side  of  these  apartments,  opposite  the 
door,  and  between  the  two  great  windows 
looking  into  the  rose-garden.  It  was  a 
portrait  of  the  mother  of  her,  Drucilla 
Dudley,  as  a  girl  of  twenty  years.  When 
my  guest  saw  the  picture  he  stopped 
quickly  and  caught  his  breath  as  if  stricken 
with  both  fear  and  surprise.  Then,  with 
an  effort  to  control  himself  that  made  the 
whole  body  tremble  convulsively,  he  fol 
lowed  me  on  into  his  rooms. 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

"It  will  not  seem  mere  curiosity?  .  .  . 
You  will  not  think  me  discourteous,"  he 
asked,  after  resuming  his  ordinary  man 
ner  with,  perhaps,  a  bit  of  uncontrollable 
agitation  in  his  face,  "  if  I  were  to  ask  you 
the  name  of  the  lady  whose  portrait  we 
saw  in  the  blue-room? " 

The  question  seemed  a  bit  personal  on 
so  short  an  acquaintanceship.  Also  I  felt 
somewhat  jealous  that  his  alien  eyes 
should  have  gazed  upon  this  lady  of  my 
young  heart's  worship.  Then,  remem 
bering  the  look  of  anguish  that  over 
spread  his  face,  I  felt  the  sympathy  that 
is  akin  to  love. 

"She,"  I  replied  with  bowed  head,  "was 
the  friend  of  my  youth.  She  has  been 
dead  these  twenty  years." 

When  I  looked  into  his  face  imme 
diately  after,  relief  and  compassion  were 
mingled  there,  and  the  smile  upon  his 

lips  was  born  of  a  gentle  heart. 
[28] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

"I  was  almost  sure,"  he  said  as  I  was 
leaving  him,  "that  I  had  seen  the  face 
before.  ...     Of  course  it  was  a  mistake. 
I  could  not  have  known  that  woman  - 
your  friend.  ...     It  is  very  strange." 

"Very  strange,"  I  added  as  I  passed 
down  the  hall  to  my  study  and  my  pipe 
of  tobacco. 

I  am  a  much  older  man  than  Mr. 
Hathaway  --  perhaps  I'd  forgotten  to  say 
that  my  neighbour  is  Mr.  Louis  Hathaway. 
He  is  barely  thirty.  But  from  the  moment 
he  entered  my  house  as  my  guest  I  knew 
him  to  be  the  truest  gentleman  I  had  ever 
known;  and,  moreover,  my  friend,  Louis, 
and  I  will  call  him  that  henceforth,  was 
very  reticent  from  the  first,  and  the  most 
I  have  of  his  history,  previous  to  his 
coming  to  me,  is  that  which  I  read  in  his 
face.  Summing  him  up  roundly  as  I 
may,  I  love  him.  And  it  is  good  for  a 
man  to  love  greatly  another  man.  Es- 
[29] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

pecially  it  is  good  to  love  a  young  man 
for  my  eyes  are  not  the  eyes  of  youth. 
I  know  this  for  the  reason  that  as  I  would 
sit  of  past  winter  evenings  before  my 
driftwood  fire  and  dream  of  the  years  that 
are  gone,  sometimes  I'd  suddenly  discover 
that  my  gaze  had  left  the  flickering  blaze 
and  was  resting  ominously  in  the  gray 
ashes  beneath  the  andirons.  It  used  to 
be  that  somewhat  quietly  I'd  go  back  to 
the  light  and  begin  the  dream  once  more, 
only  to  be  startled  again  by  the  lifeless 
ashes  of  the  burned-out  logs.  After  a 
while,  though,  the  ashes  became  more 
beautiful  than  the  fire.  They  were  not 
eating  away  the  remains  of  another  life, 
but,  rather,  were  the  aftermath  of  a 
goodly  oak.  Then  they  didn't  hurt  my 
eyes  like  the  brighter  lights  above,  and 
the  few  red  coals  scattered  among  them 
reminded  me  that,  after  all,  ashes  do  not 

always  mean  death.    So,  now,  they  are 
[30] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

my  white-haired  old  age,  smiling  peace 
fully  and  lovingly  from  the  one-time  hot 
and  passionate  youth.  There  is  a  conso 
lation  in  them  to  me,  in  that  they  have 
burned.  They  once  lived!  Once  they 
made  the  flame  and  they  have  earned  the 
right  to  be  ashes.  They  are  a  great  deal 
more  completely  beautiful  than  the  black, 
charred  ends  of  the  logs  that  went  out. 
Ashes  are  the  emblem  of  the  life  well 
used.  So,  when  I  begin  my  dreams  in 
the  brighter  firelight,  and  finding  my  old 
eyes  grown  weary,  end  them  in  the  ashes, 
it  isn't  so  bad  after  all.  The  thing  to 
remember  is  that  there  could  not  have 
been  ashes  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  fire. 
And  do  you  know  I've  a  notion  that 
Louis's  is  a  life  that  the  fire,  in  making  it 
strangely  sad,  likewise  has  made  it  won 
derfully  beautiful,  and  the  story  of  it  all 
lies  in  the  ashes. 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

rv 

In  my  rose-garden  there  is  a  sun-dial. 
If  you  remember,  the  jacqueminots  are 
near  it,  and  there's  a  seat  carved  in  the 
stone  where  one  may  sit  and  watch  time 
ripen  the  red  of  the  roses  and  then,  fickle 
lover,  shrivel  them  until  they  are  but 
memories.  Many's  the  time,  in  the  old 
days,  that  Drucilla  and  I  have  rested  upon 
that  bench,  or  leaned  over  the  dial,  and 
talked  of  things  now  too  long  dead  to 
tell,  while  I  entwined  the  blossoms  in  her 
hair. 

This  morning,  knowing  that  Marcia 
would  arrive  by  the  coach  sometime 
during  the  day,  I  went  into  the  garden  to 
rest  on  the  old  seat  and  look  at  the  opening 
of  the  buds.  Somehow  it  is  there  that 
things  untangle,  and  burdens  seem  to 
drift  away  on  the  perfume.  I  wanted, 
perhaps  for  the  last  time,  to  think  it  all 
[32] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

over  about  Drucilla  and  the  heart  of  me. 
When  a  man  needs  such  stuff  as  sym 
pathy  he  seeks  his  lady  of  the  loving 
heart,  and,  if  there  be  none,  he  turns  to 
memory,  therein  finding  peace.  And,  as 
a  man  can  never  wholly  blame  for  any 
thing  a  woman  he  has  once  loved,  I 
wanted  to  speak,  after  all  of  the  years, 
with  the  soul  of  me  concerning  Drucilla 
and  the  love  she  may  have  borne  me. 

Aye,  how  the  memories  rush  in  upon 
me  from  the  boy  to  the  man.  They  over 
power  me  and  I  am  helpless  like  unto  a 
woman  in  the  abandon  of  passion.  Dru 
cilla  was  the  first  child-sweetheart  I  ever 
knew.  I  can  see  her  this  day  as  a  little 
girl,  wild,  full  of  caprice,  and  beautiful. 
I  remember  I  was  living  here  at  the  man 
sion  and  she  'most  a  mile  further  on  in  the 
country.  It  was  a  wonderful  old  home, 
that  of  her  childhood,  crowning  the  very 
top  of  a  rugged,  wooded  hill.  I  was  a 
[33] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

boy  'most  grown  before  we  ever  saw  one 
another.  That  is,  I  was  twelve  or  fourteen 
and  she  some  years  younger.  Then  I 
came  to  school  in  the  village  and  she  was 
there.  She  dressed  better  than  the  other 
little  girls.  It  seemed  that  she  possessed 
more  innate  sweetness,  even  to  the  shoes 
she  wore  and  the  ribbon  about  her  hair, 
than  any  girl-child  I  have  ever  seen.  It 
is  useless  to  tell  you  how  beautiful  she 
was,  with  the  tenderest  of  great  gray 
eyes,  the  most  kissable  mouth,  and  the 
warmest  of  sun-flecked  hair.  Of  all 
women  I  have  ever  known  and  may 
ever  know,  none  can  have  the  exact 
place  in  my  memory  that  is  Drucilla's 
as  when  a  child.  I  was  a  mere  boy 
with  a  mind  as  clear  and  clean  as  the 
native  ah*,  and  she  —  she  will  always  be 
the  angel  of  my  memory. 

Then   there    came   womanhood.     This 
lady  of  my  joyous  days  was,  of  a  surety, 

[34] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

a  woman  who  counted  the  years  of  her 
life  by  the  springtimes.  Hers  was  a 
young  heart  a-blossom  in  a  body  that  one 
day  would  be  wonderful  in  the  delicate- 
ness  of  its  babyish  beauty,  while  to-mor 
row  would  find  therein  a  marvellous 
strength  usually  belonging  only  to  men. 
There  were  moments  when  she  seemed 
the  most  veritable  of  fragile  things  and 
soft,  talking  and  thinking  like  unto  an 
innocent,  petulant,  and  spoiled  child. 
Being  small  of  stature,  sweet-faced,  and 
round-limbed,  she  always  seemed  as  one 
to  be  protected  and  humoured.  Yet  this 
last  was  far  from  being  true.  Quick  to 
act  and  quicker  to  think,  betimes  there 
would  flash  from  her  a  brilliance  that 
would  cut  with  a  keenness  seeming  to 
kill  the  spirit  of  kindness  in  her  eyes. 
In  those  moods  she  would  dare  to  do 
anything.  Wild  and  full  of  passion,  it 
appeared  as  if  she  would  break  hearts  but 

[35] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

for  the  chance  of  healing  them  with  her 
gentleness.  Those  days  the  softness  of 
her  flesh  would  seem  to  depart  with  the 
simplicity  of  her  heart,  and  the  strength 
of  a  line  of  the  noblest  of  sires  was  hers, 
and  the  heart  of  her  was  true.  Her  wit 
was  as  subtle  as  sometimes  it  was  cruel. 
She  was  frank  like  unto  a  youth;  hers 
was  the  honour  of  a  man ;  the  beauty  and 
the  playfulness  of  her  made  of  all  men 
lovers.  So,  this  lady  of  my  old  days  was 
to  be  loved  in  gentleness  and  in  passion; 
to  be  fought  for;  to  live  for,  that  she 
might  bless  you  by  her  presence ;  a  woman 
for  whom  men  would  not  fear  to  die. 
And  she  —  she,  from  the  depth  of  the 
heart  of  me,  was  the  truest  woman  God 
ever  gave  the  world. 

Then  there  came  a  time  when  I  sat 

here  on  this  seat  and  wondered  why  love, 

beautiful  passionate  love,  was  compared 

to  Heaven  and  with  God.    And  it  seemed 

[36] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

that  I  knew.  It  was  for  the  reason  that 
they  were  unattainable.  Two  vague, 
mysterious  dreams  that  butted  out  their 
lives  against  the  first  rough  walls  of 
reality.  And  Hope !  Hope,  I  thought,  is 
a  liar  that  seduces  and  points  to  the  wall. 
...  I  remember,  how  well!  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
believed  it  then.  There  was  much  of 
bitterness  in  the  heart  of  me.  But  now 
the  great  sky,  the  stars  and  my  perfumed 
world  of  blossoms  have  given  it  all  the 
lie.  Memories  soften  the  heart  and  we 
forget  the  sting  of  pain. 

While  I  thought  there  came  startling 
me  for  the  moment  two  small,  white 
hands  stealing  over  my  face  and  closing 
my  eyes.  Then  there  came  to  me  a 
delicious  thrill  that  was  'most  maddening. 
I  reached  and  took  the  fingers  into  my 
own.  They  were  warm  and  very  deli 
cate  and  pink-tipped.  Slowly  I  bore 
them  up  to  my  lips,  and  then  a  seemingly 
[37] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

familiar  voice,  like  a  memory  from  the 
past,  asked: 

"  Guess  who?  " 

"It's  you!"  I  answered. 

"Yes,"  was  the  quick  reply,  and  she 
stood  before  me  straight  and  blushing 
like  unto  a  rose. 

"Drucilla  .  .  .  Drucilla!"  I  cried  in 
'most  unutterable  anguish.  My  heart 
seemed  to  burst  and  the  blood  to  choke 
the  life  from  me.  I  clutched  at  my 
throat  —  the  breath  would  not  come. 
.  .  .  Then,  0  mercy  of  God,  I  fell,  pros 
trate,  striking  my  head  against  the  dial. 

When  next  I  opened  my  eyes  to  the 
light  of  day  I  was  lying  in  my  own  bed, 
the  curtains  of  which  were  pulled  closely 
together.  I  was  well  with  the  exception 
of  the  weakness  that  follows  excitement 
or  fatigue.  I  felt  my  head  and  found  it 
bandaged.  Stealthily  peeping  from  the 

curtains  I  saw  the  room  was  filled  with 

[38] 


MY  LADY  0'  ROSES 

a  profusion  of  my  roses  —  those  con 
densed  blushes  from  the  cheeks  of  South 
ern  women.  There,  too,  reading  one  of 
my  old  volumes  from  the  library,  sat  the 
vision  of  my  Drucilla.  Upon  her  face 
was  written  a  veritable  paradox  of  char 
acter.  She  appeared  both  haughty  and 
tender,  gentle  and  severe,  then  chaste, 
then  seductively  naughty.  I  stirred  un 
easily  and  fell  back,  somewhat  exhausted, 
upon  my  pillow. 

After  a  while  there  came  a  voice, 
strangely  sweet,  that  said: 

"Please  do  not  be  frightened.  .  .  .  It's 
only  Marcia.  ...  I  am  my  mother's 
daughter,  sir  ...  May  I  open  the  cur 
tains  for  you?" 


[39] 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  YEARS 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  THE 
YEARS 


>T  was  all  a  mistake 
about  my  heart  being 
old.  She  doesn't  mind 
a  bit  my  manner  of 
dressing.  I  think  she 
rather  likes  the  ro 
mance  of  it,  and  I  am  decidedly  happy 
at  having  about  me  the  freshness  and 
vigour  of  her  young  girlhood.  I've  dis 
covered  that  I  had  lived  too  long  within 
myself.  My  life  has  been  a  pipe,  old 

[43] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

books,  roses,  and  memories.  That  is  good 
and  I  find  I  have  been  happy.  Very  likely 
it  is  after  this  fashion  I  shall  end  the 
living  of  life.  Yet,  I've  a  notion  that  a 
house,  even  a  mansion,  does  not  become 
all  of  a  home  until  there  is  in  it  a  woman. 
I  am  pleased  and  my  sires  have  ceased  to 
frown  down  upon  me  as  I  tread  the 
ancestral  halls. 

My  Lady  o'  Roses,  in  coming  into  this 
world,  must  have  been  given  the  spirit  of 
her  mother.  My  fears  proved  true,  only 
now  I'm  glad.  Marcia  is  the  reincarna 
tion  of  the  Drucilla  that  has  lived  these 
many  years  in  the  heart  of  me.  Hers  is 
the  same  beauty,  only,  if  possible,  it  is 
more  wonder-waking;  there  is  the  same 
childlike  spirit;  the  same  flashing,  strong 
character.  Truly  in  this  girl  there  is 
fashioned  the  strongest  mixture  of  the 
spiritual  and  the  animal  beauty  I  have 
ever  known.  Her  intellect  is  like  unto 
[44] 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  THE  YEARS 

that  of  a  man,  yet  in  her  there  abides  the 
tenderer,  etherial  instincts  of  the  feminine. 
Then  she  is  soft  and  round  with  full,  red 
under  lip  bespeaking  a  passion  that  is 
immediately  denied  by  the  innocence  of 
her  eyes,  as  blue  as  deep  water.  Because 
she  has  lived  much  in  France,  especially 
in  Paris,  and  has  seen  more  of  the  world, 
the  daughter,  perhaps,  is  wiser  than  was 
the  mother. 

She  knows  me  only  as  her  mother's 
long-time  friend.  That  is,  unless  I  babbled 
in  my  silly  fright,  and  I  do  not  think  so  or 
else  I  had  been  told  by  Louis.  He  and 
my  lady  met  when  I  was  being  carried, 
unconscious,  from  the  rose-garden.  I  re 
gret  not  having  been  able  to  present  these 
two,  if  for  no  better  reason  than  to  have 
enjoyed  the  pleasure  Louis  would  have 
experienced  in  looking  upon  one  who  is 
the  very  image  of  the  portrait  in  the  blue- 
room.  When  I,  in  a  mood  of  mocking 
[45] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

jest,  formally  presented  them  they  seemed 
to  be  annoyed  by  my  pleasantry  and 
assured  me  that  they  had  met  before.  I 
do  not  see  why  it  should  have  been  par 
ticularly  unpleasant,  even  if  I  was  'most 
dead,  for  them  to  have  met  as  they  did 
in  my  rose-garden.  At  any  rate  they 
appear  to  be  good  friends  and  I'm  content. 
If  My  Lady  o'  Roses  had  not  liked  him  it 
would  have  troubled  me  no  little  for  I've 
learned  to  love  this  man.  Marcia  will 
talk  little  of  him.  When  I  see  them  alone 
they  seem  to  talk  seriously  enough  and 
to  be  interested  in  one  another.  In  my 
presence,  however,  she  is  given  to  teasing 
him  a  deal.  At  first  I  feared  because  of 
this,  as  she  does  not  care  how  sharp  is 
her  blow;  but  he  apparently  likes  the 
sting  of  the  lady's  tongue.  Perhaps  the 
sweetness  of  the  smile  that  is  given  with 
the  words  atones  for  what  otherwise 
would  be  severe  punishment. 
[46] 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  THE  YEARS 

The  cottage  in  the  field  is  complete. 
It  rests  at  the  top  of  the  single  knoll 
within  the  place  among  the  oldest  apple 
trees.  It  is,  you'll  remember,  in  the  fur 
thermost  corner  from  my  mansion,  and, 
there  being  no  other  dwelling  nearer,  it 
is  distinctly  alone.  From  my  library 
window  it  may  be  seen  across  the  great 
beds  of  poppies  —  like  unto  patches  of 
stain  from  a  sunset  sky  in  June  —  and 
there  seems  to  be  nothing  of  the  newness 
that  possesses  recently  built  houses.  Yet, 
as  I  have  said  before,  it  appears  to  be 
lonely.  When  I  look  out  over  the  hedge 
of  roses  it  always  seems  as  if  the  owner 
had  just  closed  the  doors  and  gone  upon 
a  journey.  In  fact,  did  I  not  know  he 
desired  my  companionship  by  his  persist 
ent  efforts  to  have  me  with  him,  I'd  think 
Louis  was  playing  the  hermit.  So  he  is, 
after  a  fashion,  for  he  seldom  sees  anyone 
other  than  myself.  He  wanders  about  at 
[471 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

will  in  my  green  old  garden,  reads  under 
the  shelter  of  his  own  little  home,  or  lies 
idly  gazing  at  the  sky  from  beneath  the 
gnarled  branches  of  his  apple  trees. 
These  great  trees  that  were  planted  by 
my  grandsire  and  that  are  ye  old-fash 
ioned  Southerner  to  the  heart  of  them. 
"  Their  blossoms,"  I  have  said  to  him, 
"  are  the  colour  of  our  ladies'  cheeks,  sir ; 
their  fruit  makes  the  best  apple-jack  on 
earth;  and  their  hospitality  is  so  great 
that  they  have  enhanced  the  beauty  of 
your  cottage  and  are  blossoming  in  May- 
time,  for  you,  sir,  who  are  not  a  Marsh- 
ton." 

His  is  a  beautiful  cottage.  It  is  not 
exactly  like  anything  I  have  ever  seen 
before;  but  it  is  built  and  furnished  after 
such  a  homelike  fashion  that  one  fully 
expects  to  see  some  lovely  clear-eyed 
woman  walk  into  the  room  and  welcome 

you   to   the   court  wherein  she   is   Her 
(48) 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  THE  YEARS 

Majesty  the  Queen.  The  voices  of 
merry  children  in  laughter  at  their  play 
would  seem  wholesome  and  also  would 
afford  no  surprise.  You  really  expect 
this,  so  gladsome  has  this  master-builder 
fashioned  into  the  real  the  dream  of  his 
home. 

In  the  building  of  this  cottage  the  right 
wing  was  made  to  look  out  upon  my 
hedge  of  roses  and  the  old  mansion  of  my 
sires.  The  front  room  of  this,  I  now  re 
member,  was  made  larger  than  the  others, 
and  completed  soonest.  Into  this  room 
Louis  has  never  shown  me.  I  haven't 
asked  about  it  to  be  sure,  for  it  is  no 
business  of  mine.  But  he's  terribly  mys 
terious  about  it.  I've  gone  over  to  his 
home  on  more  than  one  occasion  and 
found  him  within  this  presumably  sacred 
place.  Yesterday  he  slipped  out  hastily, 
closing  the  door  as  if  he  feared  I'd  see. 
When  I  looked  at  him  his  face  bore  an 

[49] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

expression  that  was  near  to  being  devout. 
Sometimes  I  think  he  is  sort  of  a  pagan 
and  keeps  an  image  in  this  place  and  does 
the  worshipping  of  idols  after  the  fashion 
of  heathens.  Perhaps  there's  a  little  altar 
whereupon  he  offers  sacrifices.  At  any 
rate,  be  it  idol,  shrine,  woman,  or  all 
three,  I  leave  Louis's  doors  closed  the 
way  I  find  them  and  there  the  matter 
ends.  As  I've  said  before,  I  love  Louis. 

n 

This  morning  brought  a  summer  rain 
that  has  not  yet  ceased  to  fall.  I  love 
books  next  to  roses  and  the  out-of-doors ; 
but,  as  the  beauty  of  a  young  woman 
lends  a  living  richness  to  the  flower,  so  is 
a  grate  fire  the  complement  of  an  old 
volume.  Thus  it  is  that  I  reserve  all  of 
my  reading  for  the  coldest  days  of  winter. 
It  is  only  the  severest  sort  of  a  thunder- 
[50] 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  THE  YEARS 

storm  that  drives  me  indoors  when  all 
the  world's  a-blossom. 

However,  as  I  have  said  before,  it  has 
rained  all  day.  In  the  forenoon  I  went  to 
my  library,  pulled  down  my  Shakespeare, 
and,  with  a  bit  of  tobacco  and  my  pipe, 
began  the  reading  of  "As  You  Like  It." 
It's  a  stupid  old  man  that  can  go  to  sleep 
reading  this  little  comedy  so  alive  with  peo 
ple  after  my  own  heart ;  therefore,  I've  a 
notion  it  must  have  been  the  patter  of  the 
rain  upon  the  window  and  the  smoking 
that  did  it.  Anyhow  I  was  awakened  by 
the  book  closing  with  a  bang  and  drop 
ping  to  the  floor.  When  I  opened  my 
eyes  it  was  to  stare  into  the  mischievous 
countenance  of  My  Lady  o'  Roses. 

"I  wouldn't  have  awakened  you,"  she 
said  the  next  moment,  "  only  it's  impera 
tive." 

"It's  nothing  serious  I  hope,"  I  cried, 
fully  awake,  springing  to  my  feet. 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

"Very,"  she  replied  gravely.  "It's  very 
serious.  .  .  .  You  must  help  me,"  she 
added  appealingly. 

"My  lady,"  I  replied,  bowing  over  her 
little  hand,  "the  world  is  yours.  Least 
wise  my  part." 

"You  will,  then?"  she  asked  eagerly, 
with  merriment  in  her  eyes. 

"On  the  honour  of  a  gentleman,"  I 
replied. 

"It's  a  ball,"  she  cried  excitedly.  "Let's 
give  a  ball.  A  real  old-fashioned  one  and 
make  them  dress  like  —  like  you !  We'll 
have  Doctor  Blossom,  and  Louis,  and  all 
the  country  folk." 

"If  it  pleases  my  lady,"  I  replied. 

"Come,"  she  said  reaching  for  my 
hand,  "let's  go  to  the  ballroom  and  plan 
the  whole  of  it." 

The  ballroom  of  my  old  mansion  is 
large  and  a  bit  dreary.  The  place  has 

not  been  used  for  anything  since  I  became 

[52] 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  THE  YEARS 

master,  and  it  is  much  like  unto  a  cellar. 
It  had  been  left  to  the  care  of  old  Dinah 
and  I  had  not  seen  it  for  a  matter  of 
years.  This  long-time  place  of  merriment 
was  filled  with  too  many  memories  the 
pain  of  which  now  proved  past  forgetting. 
When  we  entered,  closing  the  great 
double  doors  behind  us,  and  opened  the 
shutters,  flooding  the  old  room  with  light, 
it  seemed  as  if  the  recollections  born  of 
each  nook  and  corner  would  overpower 
me.  Marcia  walked  about  examining  the 
tapestries  and  portraits.  As  for  me,  the 
violins  of  other  days  sobbed  and  pulsated 
a-down  the  years  until  for  me  there  was 
now  no  future,  no  present,  but  only  the 
past.  It  is  strange  how  we  remember 
sorrows  with  a  deal  less  suffering  than 
these  tender  joys,  long  gone,  that  come 
wrought  with  such  unspeakable  pain.  .  .  . 
Once  again  I  could  see  the  gaily  bedecked 
dancers  and  smell  the  perfume  of  the 
[53] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

laces  and  gowns.  Before  me  I  could  see 
a  tall  and  manly  youth  clad  completely 
in  white  satin,  leading  the  minuet  with  a 
fair  and  lovely  girl  whose  eyes,  glancing 
furtively  from  beneath  her  powdered  hair, 
danced  quite  as  much  as  her  dainty  toes. 
The  rosy  tips  of  the  fingers  of  her  right 
hand  were  held  tightly  in  the  gentleman's, 
while  with  the  other  she  coquettishly 
lifted  her  silken  skirts  just  enough  to 
disclose  at  each  step  a  bit  of  an  alluring 
ankle.  The  youth's  kindly  face  was  flushed 
with  the  wonder  of  her  beauty  as  he  cour 
teously  watched  each  graceful  movement 
of  her  supple  little  body.  Once  she  must 
have  thought  his  fingers  tightened  about 
her  own,  for  she  turned  and  glanced  into 
his  eyes  as  I  have  wanted  but  one  woman 
to  look  into  mine  in  all  of  a  lifetime.  .  .  . 
0  the  memories,  the  memories  that  are 
the  manna  of  us  who  have  become  old! 
It  is  passing  strange  how  the  past  is 
[54] 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  THE  YEARS 

made  a  part  of  the  present.  A  bit  of 
forgetfulness,  a  few  living  and  tender 
memories,  something  of  the  old  environ 
ment,  and  it  is  so  easy  for  sixty  years  to 
become  but  twenty.  .  .  .  My  Lady  o' 
Roses,  fair  and  expectant,  was  standing 
before  an  old  painting  of  a  rather  delicate 
young  man,  and  the  youth  in  the  picture 
gazed  back  at  her,  his  large,  brown  eyes 
seemingly  awaiting  eagerly  for  each  sweet 
word  that  might  fall  from  her  lips.  I, 
too,  standing  just  behind,  was  looking 
upon  myself  as  a  lad  of  some  twenty-four 
years  of  age. 

"  I  wonder,  when  you  were  young,  you 
did  not  love  and  marry  some  lady,  some 
time,  somewhere,"  she  said,  not  taking 
her  eyes  from  the  picture.  .  .  .  "You 
must  have  been  so  kind  and  good  and 
gallant,"  she  continued,  "and  I've  heard 
father  say  that  mother  thought  you  the 
handsomest  man  she  ever  knew.  And  — " 
[55] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

She  ceased  speaking  quite  suddenly,  for 
here  I  took  her  hand  in  mine  and  slipped 
my  arm  about  her,  while  she  —  without 
knowing  why  nor  how  —  allowed  herself 
to  yield.  Then  I  bowed  my  face  above 
her  own  and  felt  the  warm  kiss  I  pressed 
upon  her  lips. 

Quickly  realizing  what  had  happened 
the  girl  jerked  rudely  away  and  started 
running  toward  the  door,  tears  of  anger 
and  chagrin  coursing  down  her  cheeks. 
Before  she  reached  the  curtains,  though, 
I  had  caught  her  sleeve ;  and  now,  coming 
to  myself  and  realizing  what  had  hap 
pened,  I  kneeled  with  bowed  head,  holding 
tightly  her  trembling  hand. 

"  Forgive  me !  Won't  you  forgive  me?  " 
I  pleaded.  "Oh,  if  you  only  knew,  you 
would  forgive  me!  You  spoke  of  love, 
of  my  loving  .  .  .  and  if  you  only  knew 
how  I  loved  and  what  it  meant  to  me, 
you  would  be  kind.  .  .  .  You  would  for- 
[56] 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  THE  YEARS 

give  me  now.  .  .  .  Oh,  must  I  tell  you 
when  she  never  dreamed  it  true?" 

The  girl's  anger  had  fled,  and  she 
looked  compassionately,  pityingly  down 
upon  me,  near  heart-broken,  and  listened 
while  I  murmured  over  her  small  white 
hand: 

"It  was  your  mother  in  you  that  made 
me.  All  the  years  before  she  died  I  loved 
your  mother,  child,  and  not  one  word  or 
caress  did  I  give  her  of  it.  ...  Oh,  it 
was  your  mother  in  you  that  made  me!" 

Then  My  Lady  o'  Roses  stooped,  very 
tenderly  kissed  my  brow,  and  whispered: 

"  Had  I  been  in  her  place,  I  think  .  .  . 
oh,   I  think  I   should   have   loved  you 
always ! " 

III 

It  was  a  bright  Sunday  morning  in  my 
quiet  old  village  of  Bluefield.  A  beautiful, 
serene  peacefulness  lay  about  the  quaint, 

[57] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

moss-shingled  homes  that  seemed  to  find 
its  origin  in  the  pure  sunlight  that  fell 
lightly,  like  a  refreshing  shower  in  April, 
cleansing  everything,  from  flagstone  side 
walks  to  sin-sick  souls.  The  sunshine 
seemed  to  be  running  and  bubbling  and 
gushing  with  joy  and  good-will.  The 
turnpike  stretched  its  white  length  through 
the  town,  and,  curving  around  a  green 
knoll,  disappeared  as  if  swallowed  up  in 
a  blossoming  pasture.  Here  and  there 
an  ancient  looking  family  carriage,  drawn 
by  a  jogging  old  horse  in  Sunday  harness, 
could  be  seen  rolling  toward  the  "meetin'- 
house."  The  silvery  clang  of  the  church 
bells  might  be  heard  for  miles  across  the 
fields,  and  their  tone  was  that  of  love  and 
peace.  Though  no  two  had  just  the  same 
sound,  there  was  no  discord.  The  min 
ister  of  each  could  have  told  you  this. 
So  it  seemed  that  from  the  country,  from 

the  town,  from  the  earth  and  sky,  from 
[58] 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  THE  YEARS 

the  hearts  and  from  the  bells,  the  one 
tone  was  peace,  sweet  peace. 

In  due  time  I  walked  out  and  leaned 
against  one  of  the  pillars.  I  was  dressed 
ready  for  worship.  For  more  than  half 
an  hour  I  stood  watching  the  song-spar 
rows  and  robins  flit  among  the  purple 
lilacs  that  still  were  wet  and  sweet  with 
the  dew.  It  was  truly  wonderful  how  the 
birds  carolled  and  warbled  and  trilled,  and 
rolled  their  little  throats,  now  standing 
atilt  on  a  blossom,  then  fairly  falling 
gleefully  to  a  tiny  twig,  and  all  the  time 
never  ceasing  their  rollicking  song,  as  if 
actually  drunk  with  the  sunshine  and  the 
dew.  Afterward  I  walked  thoughtfully 
down  to  the  fence,  which  was  completely 
hidden  from  sight  by  the  great  mass 
of  morning-glories  clambering  over  the 
lichen-bearded  rocks.  And  now  in  the 
early  morning  the  hedge  seemed  a  huge 
bower  of  white,  purple,  blue,  and  crimson 
[59] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

glories;  glories  as  crimson  as  the  deepest 
hues  of  a  sunset  sky. 

I  love  them  because  they  close  their 
delicate  petals  during  the  hot,  busy  day, 
blossoming  only  in  the  early  morning  for 
the  pure  sun  and  the  first  song  of  the  red 
bird.  Like  all  sweetest  things,  though, 
they  are  unconsciously  cruel.  I  remem 
ber  to  have  come  out  about  noon  the  other 
day.  .  .  .  They  were  closed  then.  .  .  . 
And  I  found  a  bee,  a  little  honey  bee, 
that  had  been  so  intently  sucking  the 
nectar  from  the  glory's  slender  throat  that 
he  had  been  trapped  and  shut  up  in  the 
lovely  crimson  prison.  He  was  so  dazed 
and  intoxicated  when  I  released  him  that 
it  was  several  moments  before  he  was 
able  to  fly  away.  ...  I  found  another 
silken  glory,  too,  where,  when  the  flower 
had  begun  to  close,  the  bee  knew  of  it 
and  might  have  escaped;  but  there  was 

yet  honey  in  the  tiny  crimson  throat  for 

[60] 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  THE  YEARS 

him.  After  the  blossom  had  closed  and 
given  all  of  its  sweets  to  its  lover,  he  had 
roughly  thrust  his  hairy  legs  through  the 
delicate  prison,  forsaking,  and  leaving  a 
torn,  ragged  hole  in  the  fading  petal  that 
lay  dying  in  its  crimson  beauty.  .  .  .  Ah, 
little  bee  and  pretty  flower,  I  thank  God 
that  you  were  made  irresponsible. 

Then,  instead  of  going  out  through  the 
gate  toward  the  church,  as  usual,  I  re 
turned  to  the  house;  and,  seating  myself 
before  the  library  window,  idly  watched 
the  bees  as  they  flew  hither  and  thither 
about  the  lilacs  and  the  morning-glories. 
Much  to  the  uneasiness  of  my  old  body- 
servant,  who  soon  came  bearing  a  Sun 
day  julep  —  having  more  mint  and  less 
whiskey  than  during  week-days  —  I  or 
dered  him  to  bring  down  the  old  cedar 
chest  that  lay  in  the  dustiest,  most  remote 
corner  of  the  garret.  Knowing  not  the 
real  malady  he  must  have  believed  me 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

ill.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  cause, 
nevertheless,  as  I  sat  by  my  window 
breathing  the  cool,  perfume-laden  air,  my 
memory  wandered  back  over  the  days  of 
my  youth  to  the  time  when  I  learned  to 
love  the  beautiful  girl  who  afterwards 
married  William  Dudley.  I  well  remem 
ber  the  time,  the  only  time,  when  I  tried 
to  speak  to  her  of  the  love  in  my  heart. 
Probably  it  is  because  it  was  on  just 
another  such  a  Sunday  morning  as  this 
that  I  recall  it  so  clearly  now. 

I  had  walked  home  with  her  from 
church,  and  the  day  was  so  full  of  beauty 
and  love,  and  she  was  so  fresh  and  sweet, 
like  the  sunshine  and  the  breeze,  that,  as 
I  looked  with  rapture  upon  her  flower-like 
face,  breathing  the  perfume  of  her  pres 
ence,  I  impulsively  lifted  her  hand  to  my 
lips  and  would  have  told  her  all  had  we 
not  suddenly  realized  that  we  were  in  the 

village  street.    Before  the  next  Sunday 
[62] 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  THE  YEARS 

she  had  gone  East  to  visit,  and  finding 
life  intolerable  without  her,  I  wrote  of 
my  love  and  asked  hers  in  return.  How 
well  I  remember  this  letter.  It  was  a 
boyish,  passionate  story  of  love,  which 
showed  a  clean,  pure  heart's  worship  for 
an  immaculate,  simple  girl.  One  passage 
I  recollect  clearly: 

"I  long  for  you,  dear  lady,  these  days, 
and  live  from  week  to  week  on  the  mem 
ories  of  the  hours  we  have  spent  together, 
as  a  worn,  aged  man  dreams  of  the  beau 
tiful  years  of  his  childhood  —  a-living 
again  in  the  mind  of  a  life  'most  past. 
Now  I  am  living  my  second  love  for  you. 
And  though  it  is  sweet  —  even  the  little 
quarrels  are  sweet  —  there  is  something 
gone,  something  missing  that  was  so 
much,  almost  all,  of  the  other.  And  that, 
sweetheart,  is  you.  You  are  gone!" 

Then  her  answer!  It  came  tastefully 
in  a  little  box  of  silver  and  gold  that  might 
[63! 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

have  been  made  for  a  lady's  jewels.  With 
eager  fingers  and  trembling  hopes  I  opened 
it,  and  there,  quite  innocently,  lay  a  little 
red  mitten.  A  yarn  mitten!  One  of  her 
own.  I  had  seen  her  wear  it,  with  the 
mate,  a  hundred  times.  .  .  .  Suddenly  the 
truth  of  it  all  rushed  over  me.  I  had 
been  rejected  —  rudely,  shamelessly  jilted ! 
Hurt  beyond  measure,  I  snapped  the  lid 
of  the  box,  without  even  removing  the 
little  glove,  and  cast  it  into  the  very 
bottom  of  the  cedar  chest  in  the  attic. 
There  it  has  remained  untouched  for 
years. 

Shortly  after  Drucilla  returned,  as  you 
know,  she  married  William  Dudley.  Al 
though  her  treatment  of  me  seemed  cruelly 
incongruous,  I  have  never  wholly  con 
demned  her  for  it.  It  was  so  unlike  the 
girl  I  loved  that  I  could  never  think  of 
the  two  together. 

This  morning  I  sent  Marcia  to  church 
[64] 


AFTER  THE  SILENCE  OF  THE  YEARS 

with  Doctor  Blossom  who  came  a-riding 
by.  I  thought  it  would  be  as  Christianly 
a  thing  as  I  could  do  to  remain  at  home 
and  destroy  every  link  of  evidence  against 
the  name  of  the  mother  of  the  girl  who 
is  now  under  my  protection.  I  wanted  to 
burn  out  the  wrong  that  always  has  been 
my  secret.  So  I  ordered  the  old  chest 
down,  intending  literally  to  burn,  on  the 
hearth,  every  vestige  it  contained,  not  trust 
ing  so  sacred  a  task  to  a  servant  and  a  bon 
fire.  I  chose  Sunday  because  it,  in  a  way, 
is  a  symbolism  that  still  my  faith  is  strong. 
Opening  the  chest,  which  now  had  been 
by  my  side  for  some  time,  I  was  greeted 
with  a  perfume  of  pressed  flowers  and 
cedar.  Lifting  out  each  package  care 
fully  I  soon  came  to  the  corroded  little 
box  that  had  rested  for  so  many  years 
hidden  away  from  the  world.  Carefully 
raising  the  lid,  I  found  the  mitten  within, 
not  even  faded,  just  as  it  looked  when 
[65] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

first  I  saw  it.  Somehow,  now  it  did  not 
bring  anger  and  chagrin  as  before;  but 
rather  my  heart  quickened  with  a  longing 
and  a  love  returned  doubly  strong  after 
the  silence  of  the  years.  Impulsively  - 
just  as  I  had  lifted  Drucilla's  small  hand 
in  the  long  ago  —  I  suddenly  pressed  the 
mitten  to  my  lips. 

The  feeling  of  tenderness  quickened  with 
astonishment.  Going  hurriedly  to  the  win 
dow  I  eagerly  thrust  my  fingers  into  the 
tiny  glove  and  drew  forth  a  small  bit  of  note 
paper.  Turning  to  the  light  I  spread  the 
missive  open,  with  trembling  hands,  upon 
the  casement,  and  read  the  simple  lines: 

"I  love  you,  dear  lad,  and  send  you 
this  that  you  may  claim  its  owner  when 
she  returns.  Your  Drucilla." 

"0  God,  I  humbly  thank  thee,"  I 
cried,  dropping  upon  my  knees,  "that  it 
was  I  who  erred,  and  not  the  lady  of  my 

heart's  desire!" 

[66] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 


H,  my  Drucilla,  once 
again  I'm  twining 
roses  in  your  hair  at 
the  old  sun-dial.  My 
children  —  the  jacque- 
minots,  Marcia  and 
Louis  --  think  I'm  lonely.  They  do  not 
know  that  most  all  of  the  life  of  me 
I've  kept  you  from  without  my  heart's 
door,  and  that  only  yesterday  did  I  become 
as  humble  as  a  little  child  that  I  might 
enter  ths  kingdom  of  love.  You  I  found 
[69] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

again  in  an  old  red  mitten,  and  heaven 
opened  to  the  like  of  me  in  a  bit  of  faded 
paper  where  your  hand  had  traced  the 
joyous  message.  So  I  meet  you  at  the 
dial  as  in  the  olden  days.  Then  youth 
must  needs  have  soft  caress  of  warm- 
parted  lips  to  be  sure  o'  the  soul's  passion, 
but  nowadays  I  find  I  love  thee  better 
nestling  deep  within  my  heart. 

All  day  long  I  sit  here  with  my  pipe  - 
it's  an  old  man's  comfort  and  you  will  not 
mind  —  while  I  watch  the  play  of  Louis 
and  My  Lady  o'  Roses. 

It  rained  this  morning,  early.  One  of 
those  big,  spattery,  warm  springtime  rains, 
you'll  remember,  like  we  used  to  love  to 
get  out  in  and  look  up  at  with  bare  faces 
while  it  pelted  us  with  its  soft,  lucid  drops. 
Didn't  you  like  to  squash  the  cool  mud 
between  your  toes?  Then  we'd  be  called 
in  and  scolded  by  old  mammy.  Afterward 
we'd  go  attic-ward,  for  that  was  next  best. 
[70] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

/,'/    s 

Well,  an  old  man  who  pets  roses  and 
rheumatism  cannot  go  bareheaded  in  the 
rain  o'  springtime,  so  I  went  to  the  old 
attic  longing  rather  lonesomely  for  the 
dream-talk  of  used-to-be.  There  were 

,  .(\ 

the  same  —  most  the  same,  for  there  were 

/     '  ',      '      >       -  *• 

some  additions  ~  old  trunks  and  dusty, 
broken-down  chairs  that  served  as  mail- 
clad  horses  in  the  Golden  Days.  I  pulled 
the  old,  high-backed  plush  chair  —  the  one 
with  the  broken  rocker  that  was  always 
your  throne  when  you  were  the  Princess 
Cherrylips  —  near  the  rain-bespattered 
window  where  I  could  look  out  upon  the 
roses  in  the  garden.  ...  I  was  hardly 
seated  when  Marcia  came  stealing  in 
saying  as  how  she  had  trailed  me  by  the 
scent  o'  the  baccy.  She  drew  a  stool  - 
the  one  that  used  to  serve  as  a  step  to  the 
throne  —  and  sat  beside  me  with  her  hand 
clasping  mine. 
As  we  sat  a-dreaming,  my  eyes  looked 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

way  beyond  the  garden  and  the  poppies 
into  the  orchard  of  our  youth.  Then  My 
Lady  o'  Roses  looked  into  my  face  and 
asked  that  I  tell  her  of  when  the  mother 
of  her  and  I  were  children  o'  the  bare  feet. 
And  I  told  her  some  of  the  things.  Some 
how,  as  I  talked,  it  seemed  that  I  was 
lazily  wandering  with  the  boys  and  girls 
again,  coming  home  from  school  through 
the  woodland.  So,  in  dream-words,  I 
took  Marcia  back  there  in  the  spring 
time,  and  it  was  as  if  you  were  with  us 
idling  along  the  path  through  the  wood 
land. 

Now  we  are  passing  through  the  sweet- 
scented  red  and  white  clover;  straggling 
by  a  field  of  green,  rivery,  rippling  wheat ; 
then  running  down  across  the  hillside 
where  the  late  dandelions,  hardy  little 
messengers  of  summer,  peeping  out  of  the 
grass  here  and  there,  fringed  the  path 
with  rich  yellow  splendour. 
[72] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

Next  we  are  in  the  orchard,  where  the 
apple  blossoms,  blown  off  by  the  gentle 
April  breezes,  are  drifting  lazily  into  the 
long,  wet  grass.  The  drowsy,  droning 
bumble  and  honey  bees  stagger  and  stum 
ble  by  on  lazy  wings,  as  if  loaded  down 
with  the  honey  stolen  from  the  abounding 
blossoms.  A  robin  sings  in  the  gnarled 
old  apple  tree  hard  by,  while  a  lazy  south 
wind  brings  the  sweet  smell  of  an  April 
shower,  hardly  an  hour  old.  We  linger 
here  a  moment  while  I  jump  and  grasp 
some  low-hanging  boughs  that  bring  a 
shower  of  white  petals  and  fresh  rain  to 
the  earth.  Then  you'll  remember,  dear 
Lady  Loveliness,  I  climb  to  the  topmost 
branch  to  get  the  sprig  of  pink  apple 
blossoms,  like  the  color  of  her  cheeks,  for 
Drucilla. 

From  the  orchard  the  path  winds  under 
low-hanging  beech  and  elm,  where  the 
cardinal  sits  upon  the  topmost  branch, 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

pouring  forth  his  heart  in  a  song  of  joy. 
You  can  tell  he  feels  that  the  skies  are 
blue,  and  the  grass  is  growing.  Here  we 
stop  and  gather  the  first  spring  flowers, 
shaking  from  them  the  drops  of  fresh, 
sweet  rain. 

A  step  farther  on,  and  we  are  walking 
through  a  stretch  of  rich  open  woods, 
where  the  pale  sweet  cowslips,  Drucilla's 
favorite  flowers,  bloom  in  the  late  spring. 
The  delicate  white  ones,  nodding  grace 
fully  on  their  tall  stems,  always  remind 
me  of  her.  It  is  hardly  time  for  them 
yet,  but  they  are  coming,  for  the  clusters 
of  smooth,  dark  green  leaves  have  already 
begun  to  shoot  forth  from  their  long, 
bare  stems. 

Now  the  path  winds  along  the  brook- 
side,  where  the  cattle  splash  and  drink, 
and  chew  their  cuds  the  livelong  day, 
under  the  spreading  old  sycamore  where 
"Drue"  and  "Tom"  are  cut,  one  above 

[74] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

the  other,  deep  in  the  white  bark;  and  a 
heart  there  is  just  below,  with  "D"  and 
"T"  in  it.  Then  zigzagging  through  the 
cattails  and  water-lilies,  where  the  lazy 
bullfrog  croaks  at  twilight,  we  pass  over 
old  stumps  and  rotten  logs,  and  old  and 
new  blackberry  briars,  into  damp,  dark 
places;  dim,  cool,  moss-covered  dells,  and 
flower-strewn  glades,  where  the  shy  chip 
munk  peeps  from  the  moss-grown  log, 
and  the  bushy-tailed  squirrel  springs  from 
the  old  rock  fence  to  the  young  walnut 
hard  by.  Here  the  sweet,  blue  violets 
grow  around  the  rocks  and  roots  of  the 
trees,  and  the  crowfoots  and  crocuses 
shoot  out  of  the  damp  earth  —  the  first 
pledges  of  blithesome  May.  Here  I 
gather  buttercups  and  violets  for  Drucilla, 
the  violets  to  match  the  blue  of  her  eyes, 
the  buttercups  the  gold  of  her  hair. 

Now  we  lazily  climb,  resting  a  moment 
on  the  topmost  rider,  an  old  lichen-bearded 
[75] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

worm  fence,  with  a  broken  rail,  and  jump 
with  our  bare,  brown  feet  into  the  cool, 
wet  mud  of  the  corn  field.  We  rake,  as 
we  go  along,  the  mud  from  our  toes  upon 
the  long,  wet  grass  that  fringes  the  path. 
We  stand  amid  the  green  shoots  of  corn 
and  listen  to  the  crow  as  he  croaks  from 
the  dead  limb  of  a  solitary  oak,  and  "Bob 
White"  as  he  whirs  away  from  his  perch 
on  the  old  rail  fence,  piping  his  name  as 
he  goes. 

On  goes  this  path  to  Arcady  until  we 
let  down  the  barnyard  bars  and  go  up  the 
lane,  lined  with  maples  and  honey-locust, 
among  the  lowing  cows  that  have  come 
up  to  be  milked  and  are  standing  close  to 
the  gate,  gazing  longingly  toward  the 
hungry,  frisky  calves  on  the  other  side. 
Then  we  go  through  the  old  gate,  with 
its  one  hinge  at  the  top,  and  under  the 
fragrant  lilac  bushes  in  front,  around  the 
house  and  into  the  kitchen,  where  old 
[76] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

Aunt  Mossy  is  getting  the  supper,  and 
preparing  the  table  on  the  side  porch  for 
the  first  time  this  year.  Here  at  the  old 
mansion,  in  the  twilight's  purple  haze, 
amid  the  lowing  of  the  cattle  and  the 
neighing  of  the  horses,  with  the  negroes 
just  in  from  the  fields  —  amid  the  clash  of 
harness,  and  the  thump  of  the  corn  as  it 
is  thrown  into  the  feed-box,  and  the  rattle 
of  the  sweep  as  it  goes  down  into  the  well 
to  fill  the  moss-covered  watering-trough, 
with  the  mint  growing  where  the  water 
steals  over  the  sides,  with  the  smell  of 
frying  ham  from  the  quarters  —  here  ends 
the  path,  like  all  paths,  at  home.  It  was 
made  for  two  pair  of  bare  feet  —  two  were 
sturdy  and  brown,  two  were  slender  and 
pink  —  in  the  Golden  Days  of  thy  mother, 
Marcia,  and  her  Lover  Lad. 

"It's  like  a  path  to  Arcady,"  she 
whispered. 

"We  have  been  back  to  Arcady,"  I 
[77] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

answered,  looking  down  into  the  eyes 
that  were  raised  to  mine. 

"I  love  you,"  she  said.  And  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  My  Lady  o'  Roses 
held  her  lips  a-pouting  to  be  kissed  by 
mine. 

Then  she  slipped  away.  The  rain  had 
ceased  and  the  sun  was  kissing  the  pas 
sion-red  petals  of  my  roses.  I  hurried 
here  to  the  dial  to  tell  you,  for  it  seems  as 
if  the  kiss  now  burning  upon  my  lips  is  a 
part  of  the  Golden  Days,  too,  and  Arcady. 

II 

Do  you  remember  that  once  upon  a 
morning  in  rosetime  you  stood  for  more 
than  half  an  hour  holding  your  arms  for 
the  buds  I  cut  from  the  hedge  until  there 
was  scarce  a  bit  of  you  to  be  seen  above 
the  confusion  of  blossoms  save  the  splen 
did  red  of  your  mouth?  And  you  have 
[78] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

not  forgotten  that  I,  thinking  it  to  be  the 
most  wonderful  rose  of  them  all,  would 
have  kissed  it  only  that  I  might  give  it 
you  as  the  sweetest  flower  the  garden  ever 
grew?  Then,  of  a  surety  you  remember, 
it  was  the  finger-tips  I  must  needs  take 
instead?  (It  was  you,  I  think,  first  dis 
covered  the  mistake.)  .  .  .  Dear  Lady  o' 
my  Golden  Age,  adversity,  I  pray,  has 
sweetened  me,  and  it's  hard  I've  tried 
never  to  complain  of  what  life  has  pleased 
to  give  me;  but  it's  the  finger-tips  I've 
always  had  and  never  the  rose-red  mouth 
of  Love.  ...  I  love  the  finger-tips,  Dear 
Heart  o'  Mine. 

This  morning,  while  I  sat  in  the  shade 
of  the  southmost  pillar  watching  the  bees 
a-honeying,  Louis  came  cutting  roses  for 
the  arms  of  Marcia.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
memories  —  I  think  it  was,  dear  Lady,  - 
but  when  Louis  saw,  from  the  mass  of 
alluring,  red  buds,  the  blossom  of  her 
[79] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

mouth,  he  made  the  same  mistake  as 
mine  of  the  rosetime  day,  and  I  thought 
not  to  warn  him!  .  .  .  Now  from  the 
heart  of  me  I  am  thankful,  for  neither 
did  she  discover  it,  though  her  arms 
seemed  to  lose  their  strength  as  the  blos 
soms  fell  in  profusion  at  her  feet.  Then 
Louis  kneeled  and  gathered  them  again. 

Ill 

My  Lady  o'  Roses  and  I  sat  out  in  the 
light  o'  the  moon  to-night  and  listened 
as  Louis  told  us  something  of  his  early 
life.  We  were  his  guests  under  his  apple 
trees.  When  he  had  finished  I  left 
them,  for  an  old  man  like  unto  myself 
is  often  in  the  way  of  young  hearts, 
and,  besides,  my  bedtime  is  near  to  nine 
by  the  clock. 

He  began  when  the  father  of  him,  a 
swashbuckling  young  Virginian,  was  com- 

rsoi 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

pleting  his  education  in  France,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  giving  his  State  an  oppor 
tunity  to  forget  a  duel  in  which  he  had 
proven  more  skilful  with  his  sword  than 
was  good  for  his  liberty.  As  was  common 
with  young  Americans  and  Englishmen 
of  his  day  he  tramped  over  a  consider 
able  part  of  the  country.  The  necessary 
wherewithal  was  a  knapsack  with  a 
change  of  clothes,  a  book  or  two,  a  few 
francs,  and  a  cheerful  heart.  It  was 
while  on  just  such  a  jaunt  through  the 
province  of  old  Picardy  that  he  met  with 
the  adventure  which  was  to  shape  his 
entire  manner  of  living.  Without  the 
city  of  Amiens,  in  the  shadow  of  an 
ancient  chateau,  the  boy  became  a  man 
and  the  heart  of  him  awakened. 

He  had  stopped  by  the  side  of  the  road 
way  for  a  bit  of  lunch  and  a  pull  at  his 
bottle  of  Burgundy  when  there  came  from 
the  garden,  hidden  by  the  wall  against 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

which  he  rested,  the  tones  of  a  violin. 
He  was  attracted  by  the  spirit  of  passion 
ate  longing  that  the  player  seemed  to 
draw  from  the  instrument.  It  talked  to 
him,  it  sung  weirdly  to  him,  it  cried 
pleadingly  to  him,  and  then  filled  his 
blood  with  passions  breaking  to  birth  and 
a  prayer  for  the  unfulfilled  of  his  life. 
Then,  when  it  seemed  as  if  his  very  heart 
would  break  with  the  burden  of  the  song, 
the  music  ceased.  He  had  never  heard 
anything  like  that  before  and  he  sat  in 
deep  amaze. 

A  moment  later,  without  the  instru 
ment,  he  heard  a  voice  singing  a  song  of 
more  Southern  France,  for  it  was  a 
warmer,  more  intense  bit  of  music  that 
might  have  been  the  words  to  the  mood 
of  the  violin.  It  came  to  him  clear 
and  sweet  from  the  throat  of  a  girl  - 
no  woman  could  have  possessed  so  art 
less  a  simplicity  of  voice.  With  the 
[821 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

same  spirit  of  adventure  that  lengthened 
his  sword  arm  in  Virginia  and  that  sent 
him  tramping  over  Picardy,  he  drew  him 
self  to  the  top  of  the  wall  and  sat  upon 
it,  looking  down  upon  what  he  swore 
to  his  dying  day  was  the  most  beauti 
ful  picture  he  ever  beheld.  The  gables 
and  turrets  of  an  old  chateau  stood  in 
their  mediaeval  splendour  just  across  the 
opposite  wall.  Within  was  the  enchant 
ing  disorder  of  an  old  garden  left  to  ruin 
that  wrought  the  wonderful  out  of  chaos. 
Half  way  the  plot,  near  a  summer-house, 
lay  a  violin  upon  an  ancient  sun-dial. 
Nearer  him  stood  a  maid  a-berrying  while 
she  sung,  her  words  interrupted  by  each 
berry  having  to  find  a  way  into  her  warm 
red  mouth.  She  was  a  nut-brown,  round- 
throated  lass  with  cheeks  like  unto  leaves 
a-crimson  in  autumn  time.  Her  hair  was 
very  black  and  her  full  lips,  berry-stained, 
made  him  think  of  Villon's  maH  e' 
[83] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

Picardy   with   her    sweet,   red,   splendid 
kissing  mouth. 

When  she  turned  to  him  she  was  a  bit 
startled  at  the  sight  of  this  six  feet  of 
loose-jointed  Virginia  cavalier  that  stared 
into  her  wide,  surprised  eyes.  She  must 
have  seen  nothing  worthy  of  fear,  how 
ever,  for  she  smiled  quite  friendly  and 
offered  him  a  wee,  brown  hand  holding  a 
palm  full  of  berries.  "You  —you,"  she 
faltered  charmingly,  "are  the  Boy  I've 
seen  all  of  my  life  when  I'd  shut  my  eyes 
and  think.  ...  I  was  playing  to  you  a 
while  ago  —  did  you  hear  it  ? " 

He  nodded  appreciatively. 

"It  was  my  mother  taught  me,"  she 
volunteered,  "my  mother  who  died  when 
I  was  passing  fifteen.  .  .  .  What's  your 
name,  Boy?" 

The  Virginian  smiled  provokingly,  like 
a  man  who  feels  his  experience  and  age 
over  that  of  a  child-woman. 
[84] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

"In  Virginia,"  he  said,  "I'm  known  as 
1  Red '  Hathaway,  but  I  reckon  my  name's 
Rob." 

"I've  never  known  your  name,"  she 
said,  "I  always  called  you  Boy.  You 
see,"  she  hastened  to  add,  "I  knew  you 
just  as  a  boy." 

"It's  'Boy'  I'll  always  be  to  you," 
he  said. 

"I'm  Margot  o'  the  Crimson  Lips,"  she 
said,  planting  a  berry  on  the  pink  tip  of 
her  tongue. 

"I  knew  it,"  he  replied,  slipping  from 
the  wall  to  her  side.  He  reached  for  a 
berry  and  their  hands  touched.  His  heart 
ceased  to  beat;  all  a-tremble  he  stood, 
choked  and  unable  to  move.  She  seemed 
not  to  know,  but  a  moment  after  turned 
toward  him  and  held  her  face  near  to  his 
a  space,  saying: 

"The  violin  was  my  mother's,  the  ah" 
you  heard  me  playing  was  hers.  For 
[85] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

generations  it  has  been  handed  down  from 
the  founder  of  the  family.  Every  one 
who  has  played  this  magic  music  has, 
when  they  met  their  love,  forsworn  to  play 
it  again  until  they  won  the  longed-for 
heart.  .  .  .  When  I  saw  you,  Boy,  I  knew 
I  would  play  no  more  until  —  until  —  " 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  then  quite 
fiercely  commanded: 

"Kiss  me,  Boy!"  and  held  her  crimson 
lips  teasingly  a-pout. 

Then  before  he  could  realize  it  she  had 
darted  down  a  pathway  to  the  chateau, 
picking  up  her  violin  as  she  ran.  Climb 
ing  back  over  the  wall  he  drawled  musi 
cally  : 

"Margot  o'  the  Crimson  Lips,  you  won't 
have  to  quit  playing  your  violin  'cause 
you  are  going  back  to  old  Virginia  with 
me." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  beautiful 

and  romantic  courtship.     It  began  hi  a 
[86] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

spirit  of  the  purest  fun  and  carelessness  of 
love,  and  came  near  ending  in  the  direst 
of  tragedies.  Each  day  Margot  would  call 
her  love  to  her  with  the  low  tones  of  her 
violin,  and  each  day  he'd  clamber  over  the 
wall  to  kiss  the  Crimson  Lips.  Love  grew, 
as  love  does,  and  then  came  the  pain  of 
the  knowledge  that  always  comes  —  that 
it  must  be  everything  or  nothing.  It 
could  not  be  nothing  with  the  Virginian 
any  more  than  it  could  with  the  Crimson 
Lips,  so,  on  a  day  appointed,  with  much 
fear  and  trembling,  her  Boy  duly  appeared 
at  the  chateau  to  see  the  Master.  Dante 
was  mistaken  —  the  foulest  part  of  hell  is 
reserved  for  those  unnatural  offsprings  of 
perdition  who  will  rob  love  of  his  birth 
right  for  the  sake  of  a  false  pride.  This 
father,  who  proved  unworthy  of  the  name, 
preferred  to  doom  his  daughter  to  a  life 
time  of  ruinous  unhappiness  rather  than 
let  her  marry  an  untitled  gentleman.  As 
[87] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

a  consequence,  three  months  later,  to 
prove  herself  true  to  the  love  given  as 
soon  and  frankly  as  the  berries,  this 
Margot  o'  the  Crimson  Lips  must  needs 
leave  her  home,  a  despised  and  disowned 
woman,  and  come  with  her  big-hearted 
lover  to  the  land  of  his  birth.  She  was  a 
wee  bit  smaller,  and  her  face  a  deal  sadder 
on  the  parting  than  in  the  sunshine  of 
the  garden  that  morning  three  months 
agone ;  but  she  knew  that  love  would  heal 
her  heart  and  that  joy  and  happiness 
alone  lay  in  the  hands  of  the  lad  beside 
her.  And  it  was  thus  that  little  Margot 
o'  the  Crimson  Lips  brought  her  true 
heart  to  the  sunny  fields  of  old  Virginia 
hi  the  days  of  my  golden  youth. 

Meantime  the  duel,  in  which  Hatha- 
way's  sword  had  proven  too  keen  upon 
a  man  of  great  political  influence,  proved 
itself  unforgotten;  and,  after  a  short  visit 

at  the  home  of  his  father,  they  must  needs 
[881 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

come  to  Kentucky  where,  after  a  year, 
our  Louis  first  looked  upon  the  light  o' 
day.  Theirs  was  a  happy  life,  these  three 
in  their  little  home  with  love  therein. 
And  there,  beside  this  Mother  o'  Love,  he 
learned  to  speak  the  French  tongue  along 
with  his  English  —  his  mother's  Picardy 
and  his  father's  Virginia  drawl.  Most  of 
all,  when  he  could  scarce  hold  the  in 
strument,  Margot  —  she  was  still  "  o'  the 
Crimson  Lips"  --  began  to  teach  him  her 
violin.  Long,  long  hours  they  spent  be 
neath  the  trees  in  summer;  followed  the 
winter's  fireside,  and  from  that  time  until 
his  seventeenth  year  such  was  the  best 
part  of  their  life  —  Margot,  the  violin, 
and  her  Boy.  They  never  grew  tired  o' 
the  playing  the  Boy  heard  in  the  garden 
of  the  chateau,  and  Louis  learned  to  be 
a  master  of  its  yearning  sweetness. 

Yet,  as  Louis  sat  and  told  his  story,  I 
could  not  help  wondering  at  one  thing  so 
[89] 


Jyv,  ,5-  >  y-y-s,  -/? 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

strange  —  never  a  violin  had  I  seen  in 
Louis's  cottage,  nor  had  the  sound  of 
music  ever  come  to  me  across  my  hedge 
o'  roses ;  I  say  I  wondered  and  then  I  put 
my  wonder  into  words : 

"Yes,"  he  replied  hesitatingly,  at  my 
interruption,  and,  I  thought,  annoyed, 
"the  spirit  of  the  violin  has  left  me.  I 
never  played  again." 

Politeness  held  my  tongue,  yet  I  wonder 
why  he  should  never  play  again. 

Then  comes  the  "rival"  as  Margot 
chooses  to  call  her.  It  began  when  he 
was  a  mere  child  down  in  the  village 
school,  and  she  was  a  wee  bit  of  a  girlie. 
They  were  play-fellows  and  made  mud 
pies,  kept  house,  and  duly  adored  the 
violin  and  the  quaint  little  mother  of 
Louis.  It  was  in  his  seventeenth  year, 
however,  that  there  came  the  true  Rival. 
A  malignant  disease  was  sweeping  the 
country  with  great  fatality.  It  was  then 
[90] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARC  AD  Y 

that  the  swashbuckling  young  Virginian 
and  Margot,  she  o'  the  Crimson  Lips, 
went  hand-in-hand,  like  the  true  lovers 
they  were,  a-down  the  primrose  path  on 
a  longer  journey  than  to  the  pastures  of 
Kentucky  from  the  fields  of  Picardy.  "  As 
it  had  to  be,"  said  my  Louis,  "I  was  glad 
it  was  together,  for  there  must  be  no 
parting  for  such  as  Crimson  Lips  and  her 
Lover  Lad." 

Louis  went  to  France,  for  he  looked 
upon  it  as  the  one  place  where  the  future 
might  be  kind  to  him  —  this  land  o'  his 
mother's  youth.  It  was  there  he  com 
pleted  his  musical  education  and  was 
enabled  to  make  his  way  because  of  the 
beauty  of  his  playing.  He  was  penniless, 
you  know,  and  had  to  work  very  hard. 
The  struggle  was  severe,  but  the  desire  to 
attain  was  greater.  He  uprooted  every 
tie  that  bound  him  to  domestic  living  and 
forgot  the  past  of  life  for  sake  of  the 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

future.  But  it  was  right  here  —  at  this 
forsaking  of  things  at  home  after  the 
death  of  his  father  and  mother  —  that  he 
paused  a  moment  in  his  telling.  (I  won 
der,  now,  at  his  strangeness  in  wishing 
to  tell  this  bit  of  history  in  the  manner 
of  an  allegory.  Of  course  it  may  have 
been  an  eccentricity;  but  I  am  rather 
inclined  to  think  it  is  a  part  of  the  "mys 
tery"  with  which  he  enshrouds  himself. 
If  he  chooses  to  bury  his  personality, 
disguising  people  and  places,  it  is  his 
pleasure ;  but  I've  a  notion  it  will  clear  up 
very  soon  and  not  unfavourably.  ...  He 
must  have  repeated  this  story  often  to 
himself,  for  he  told  it  fluently,  not  hesi 
tating  on  words,  choosing  them  with 
skill.) 

"I  believe,"  said  Louis  rather  slowly, 
"that  here  I  made  the  first  vital  mis 
take  of  my  life.     For  it  was  during  those 
days  I  left  Her  Majesty  the  Queen,  then 
[92] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

a  mere  child,  concerning  whom  I  must 
speak  to  you  after  my  own  fashion!" 

Then  he  told  this  story  of  Her  Majesty 
the  Queen. 

"  It  was  in  the  half -forgotten  olden  days 
when  a  youth  stood  and  talked  to  a  fair 
young  girl  of  his  life,  his  future,  and  his 
opportunities. 

"' Opportunity, '  he  said,  'has  not  come 
to  me  yet.  I  am  watching,  though,  day 
by  day,  and  I  know  in  what  guise  I  shall 
expect  —  Her  Majesty  the  Queen ! ' 

"'Love,  love  has  always  been  mine,1 
he  continued.  'She  came  into  my  life 
long  ago  with  you.  You,  with  your  sweet 
and  delightful  beauty,  have  crowded  al 
most  all  of  the  visions  of  the  other  things 
I  believe  are  essential  to  happiness  from 
my  mind.  Oh,  when  I  think  how  long, 
dreadfully  long,  the  road  is  that  leads  to 
success;  when  I  think  of  the  work,  the 
bitter,  tiring  work,  that  must  be  done; 

[93] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

When  I  think  of  the  weariness,  the  sick 
ening  world-weariness  that  lies  before 
me, —  when  I  think  of  all  this  my  falter 
ing  spirit  near  turns  away,  heart-broken.' 

"He  gazed  into  the  large,  tender  eyes 
of  the  girl  for  a  while  and  his  face  sof 
tened.  How  lovely  and  good  and  simple 
and  sweet  she  was !  And  his  heart  ached 
when  he  heard  her  gently  whisper: 

"'Sweetheart,  love,  I've  discovered,  is 
the  one  thing  in  the  world  that,  as  long 
as  there  is  a  mite  of  it,  grows  greater 
from  what  was  apparently  the  greatest, 
and  sweeter  from  that  which  seemed 
sweetest ;  and  truer  from  truth  itself.  .  .  . 
That's  how  my  love  grows  for  you  each 
day.' 

"After  a  moment's  hesitation—  a  brief 
struggle  —  the  expression  of  the  man's 
eyes  became  cold  and  stern,  and  he  said: 

"'But  now  I  am  coming  to  myself. 
Opportunity  will  not  recognize  me  with 
[94] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

love,  and  the  struggle  with  life  I  must 
brave.  So  you  must  leave  me  until  the 
other  things  come  and  I  have  attained 
them.  Love  must  wait.' 

"'Oh,  do  not  send  me  away,'  pleaded 
the  maid.  'I  am  love  and  I  am  oppor 
tunity  itself.  You  do  not  recognize  me. 
I  am  Her  Majesty  the  Queen!  Queen 
Love.  Queen  of  Hearts.  Let  me  remain 
with  you,  who  are  life  and  love  and  wealth 
and  fame  to  me.  Try  me!  For  love's 
sake,  try  me!' 

"  *  No,'  replied  the  youth  almost  cruelly. 
'  You  must  go.  Opportunity  is  to  come 
to  me  as  gold  and  fame.  ...  As  for  love 
-  ah,  well,  I  may  have  love  any  time.' 

"With  bowed  head  and  humble  mien 
the  maid  left  the  lad  and  wandered  away. 
Then,  as  the  years  passed,  he  grew  to 
manhood,  searching  long  and  earnestly 
all  the  while  for  Opportunity.  .  .  .  The 
man  became  old,  his  form  bent,  and  he 

[95] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

tottered  as  he  walked.  And  as  he  went 
his  world-weary  way,  he  murmured 
always,  *  Her  Majesty  the  Queen  will  come 
once  to  every  man,  and  to  me  it  is  to  be 
as  gold  and  fame.' 

"One  day,  after  having  repeated  those 
words  over  and  over  again,  he  stopped  in 
his  work,  and  suddenly  looking  up,  added, 
'And  love!  Ah,  love,  I  can  have  love 
any  — ' 

"  Quickly  breaking  the  sentence,  he  half 
shouted,  half  whispered  in  his  cracked  old 
voice :  '  Where  is  the  maid !  Where  is  the 
maid !  She  is  right,  Love  is  life.  Love  is 
all.  She  was  Opportunity  in  the  guise  of 
love,  and  gold  and  fame  were  hid  beneath 
her  mantle.  Ah,'  he  whispered,  'where 
is  the  maid'?" 

After  he  had  finished  I  merely  smoked 
on  in  silence.  There  was  nothing  I  could 
have  said. 

"Some  few  months  after  I  left  my 
[96] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

home,"  he  said,  once  more  resuming  his 
thought,  "I  found  myself  in  Paris,  in 
orchestra,  at  poor  pay  and  no  encour 
agement.  My  mood  was  an  atoning  one 
and  I  would  to  God  it  might  have  lived. 
I  wanted  to  leave,  returning  to  home  and 
love.  It  seemed,  however,  that  I  was 
destined  to  be  a  sort  of  Wandering  Jew 
in  the  guise  of  a  wandering  Gentile.  If 
you  knew  all  of  my  life  in  detail  you 
would  be  aware  that  since  the  day  of  my 
birth  I  had  shifted  in  more  places  than  a 
Methodist  circuit  rider.  And  again,  it  has 
been  my  fate  to  always  close  behind  me 
the  gates  when  I  leave,  and  instead  of 
shaking  the  dust  from  my  feet  — which 
I  would  be  loath  to  do  —  those  I  am 
leaving  shake  their  garments  of  all  that 
might  be  of  me  and  are  careful  that  I 
come  not  so  close  in  the  future.  In  fact, 
I've  almost  turned  kith  and  kin  against 
me  at  times. 

[97] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

"Just  before  coming  here  I  thought, 
now  that  I've  again  closed  the  inevitable 
gates,  it  is  time  to  move  once  more.  .  .  . 
And  I'll  do  this  in  the  hope  that  Provi 
dence  will  be  kind  enough  to  me  to  allow 
my  weary  heart  and  tired  feet  to  walk 
over  mine  own  peaceful  threshold,  sit 
near  to  those  I  love  best  on  earth,  and 
remain  beneath  my  roof  and  shade  trees 
until  my  spirit  passes  on  into  the  unknown 
eternity  from  which  it  came. 

"You,"  he  continued,  "may  think  it 
passing  strange  in  me  that  I  left  the 
friends  of  my  youth  and  success  and  came 
here  to  live  the  hours  away  where  I 
seldom  if  ever  see  the  face  of  but  one 
man  other  than  myself.  But  you,  who 
have  come  nearest  to  understanding  me 
of  all  the  world,  will  again  understand, 
believing  that  which  I  tell  you  to  be  true. 
I  did  not  run  away  from  sorrow,  for,  you 
know,  I  am  no  coward.  I  did  not  run 
[98] 


AN  ORCHARD  IN  ARCADY 

away  from  the  fame,  either,  which  the 
world  has  chosen  to  give  me;  nor  did  I 
leave  my  friends  without  a  pang  of  regret 
for  the  years  that  have  passed.  But,  my 
dear  friends,  believe  me  when  I  tell  you 
that  my  wish,  my  dream  of  reparation,  was 
to  get  nearer  to  the  little  within  me,  and 
-  and  to  God.  ...  To  make  an  oblation 
of  my  ambition  that  thereby  I  might  be 
worthy  of  love.  That  I  might  be  fit  for 
the  gentle  heart  of  the  woman  I  one  day 
hope  to  place  upon  the  throne  in  my 
home.  That  is  why  I  built  the  cottage  in 
the  field  and  there's  a  room  awaiting  the 
coming  of  this  Queen  o'  My  Heart's 
Desire. 

"Ah,  how  often  have  I  said  that  home 
and  peace  were  the  chief  aims  of  my  life, 
and  yet  I  am  driven  from  pillar  to  post, 
not  having  a  sweet  memory  of  the  former, 
and  only  a  hope  of  the  latter." 

"But,"  I  said  as  I  arose  to  go,  "you 
[991 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

have  your  peace,  your  friends,  and  your 
threshold.  .  .  .  You  have  your  cottage  in 
the  field." 

"Yes,"  he  answered  as  he  looked  out 
over  the  blossoming  field.  "But  the 
maid?  Ah,  where  is  the  maid?" 


liooj 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 


HERE  is  no  subtler 
poison  in  the  human 
heart  for  the  killing 
of  love  than  doubt. 
Lust,  I've  sometimes 
thought,  in  either  man 
or  woman,  knows  nothing  sacred  and 
is  the  strongest  of  all  passions.  But,  at 
least,  it  is  more  open;  distrust  stabs  in 
the  back.  .  .  .  Good  Jesus,  help  me  to 
believe  in  my  friends!  ...  All  day  my 
brain  has  reeled  with  unhealthy  thoughts, 
[103] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

the  rankling  of  uncertainty.  And  for 
this  reason  during  the  afternoon  I  came 
here  to  the  woodlands.  At  such  a  time 
my  heart  turns  instinctively  to  the  trees, 
the  black  earth,  and  the  wild  things  of 
the  out-of-doors. 

On  leaving  the  mansion  I  walked  down 
through  the  old  wooden  bridge  by  the  mill. 
The  white  turnpike,  warmed  by  the  heat 
of  the  springtime  sun,  stretched  away  for 
more  than  three  dusty  miles  between  the 
fields  of  wheat  and  hemp,  then,  running 
abruptly  over  a  wooded  knoll,  disappeared, 
apparently,  in  a  blossoming  bluegrass 
pasture.  Of  course,  upon  my  going  wearily 
to  the  top  of  the  hill,  there  it  lay  again, 
threading  its  way  by  an  occasional  tobacco 
patch,  an  insipid  pond,  and  farther  on  a 
farmhouse  built  colonial  fashion.  I  stood 
for  a  bit  of  time  on  the  knoll,  leaning  on 
the  lichen-bearded  stone  fence,  and  looked 

down  the  road,  catching  a  glimpse,  through 
[104] 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

a  dust-cloud,  of  a  thoroughbred  driven  to 
a  break-cart,  and  a  wandering  darky  gath 
ering  wild  strawberries  from  the  road 
side.  Rather  lazily  I  clambered  over  the 
stones  into  the  shade  of  the  great  trees 
that  cast  their  shade  far  down  the  hillside 
to  the  spring  that  bubbles  at  its  base. 
And  there  at  the  roots  of  a  goodly  oak  I 
lay  with  my  head  propped  upon  my  elbow, 
biting  the  tender  stems  of  the  bluegrass 
while  the  short-horn  steers  eyed  me  won- 
deringly  and  the  sheep  nibbled  the  sour- 
grass  which  grew  in  the  dampest  earth. 
The  breeze  came  sailing  across  the  pas 
tures,  laden  with  the  perfume  of  the  hemp 
mingled  with  the  odours  of  the  woods 
beyond,  and  gently  lifted  the  hair  from 
my  heated  brow.  Turning  upon  my  back, 
and  gazing  through  the  green  wilderness 
of  leaves  toward  the  wide  blue  sky,  I 
marveled  at  the  great  goodness  of  God. 

Yet,  within,  the  heart  of  me  was  sore.  .  .  . 
[105] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

First,  instead  of  coming  here  I  had  gone 
to  the  dial  in  the  garden;  but  My  Lady  o' 
Roses,  I  discovered  upon  approaching  the 
seat  in  the  stone,  was  before  me,  and  from 
the  sobs  I  heard  there  was  nothing  else 
to  do  than  seek  my  trees  of  the  woodland 
pasture. 

Louis  has  been  gone  three  days.  There 
has  been  no  message  from  him  since  he 
went  away.  Doubt  —  gaunt,  wrecking, 
poisonous  doubt  —  is  killing  the  spirit  of 
me.  .  .  .  To-morrow,  it  is  true,  is  to 
bring  him  back  again,  yet  it  seems  that 
my  heart  will  break  if  I  cannot  see  him 
and  hear  his  explanation.  ...  It  is  a 
woman's  inalienable  right  to  play  the 
coquette,  but  for  a  man  it  doth  belittle 
his  manhood.  .  .  .  Ah,  it  is  hard  for  me 
to  believe  that  for  a  summer's  pastime 
Louis  has  toyed  with  the  heart  of  My 
Lady  o'  Roses.  .  .  .  Last  Monday  morn 
ing,  early,  I  was  lying  abed  waiting  for 
[106] 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

my  bath,  when  I  heard  the  coach  rattle 
up  and  stop  at  Louis's  gateway.  I  hurried 
to  the  window  in  tune  to  see  him  enter  the 
vehicle  that  disappeared  in  a  whirl  of  dust 
down  the  road.  I  saw  Marcia  furtively 

watching  him  from  behind  the  hedge  and 

jj,\ 
she  wafted  an  impetuous  little  good-by 

kiss,  across  the  field,  toward  the  receding 
coach.  Then  it  was,  my  first  misgivings 
came  a-hurrying.  My  lady  loved  him! 
And  my  thoughts  went  guiltily  back  to 
the  hedge  and  the  remembrance  of  the 
rose-red  mouth  kissed  from  amid  the 
blossoms  about  it,  and  the  look  in  the 
eyes  of  Miladi  as  she  lifted  her  face  to  his. 
Then,  in  the  orchard,  he  came  telling  us 
of  a  love  born  long  ago  —  of  Her  Majesty 
the  Queen.  .  .  .  My  good  Jesus,  that  a 
man  could  trifle  so! 

Hurrying  to  dress  I  began  what  proved 
to  be  a  fruitless  search  for  Marcia.    First, 

I  walked  to  the  garden,  for  in  the  morning 

[107] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

my  lady  is  usually  there  among  the  roses. 
Failing  to  find  her,  I  went  into  the  house 
and  directly  to  her  room.  As  I  lifted  my 
hand  to  knock  I  heard  a  half-suppressed 
sob  within. 

"Marcia,"  I  called  softly. 

There  was  another  little  pitying  sob. 

"My  Lady  o'  Roses,"  I  called  again, 
"may  I  come  in?" 

She  came  to  the  door  and  turned  the 
key  in  the  lock. 

Then  I  went  to  my  room  and,  since  then, 
things  have  seemed  to  be  becoming  more 
mixed  every  second  of  time.  She  even 
avoids  me,  and  why,  I  cannot  conceive. 
She,  Drucilla's  child,  of  all  the  world,  is 
the  last  I'd  do  one  thing  to  injure.  And 
as  for  Louis,  you  know  that  I  love  the 
man.  So,  at  last,  I've  come  here  to  un 
tangle  things  and  see  if  I  can  understand 
the  why  and  wherefore  of  the  conduct  of 

Louis  and  my  lady. 

[io8J 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

Now,  the  smell  of  the  pennyroyal  is 
decidedly  more  pungent  than  in  the  earlier 
afternoon,  and  the  earth  appears  cooler 
down  where  the  creek  disappears  in  the 
woods.  The  cattle  have  left  and  are 
standing  belly-deep  in  the  pool,  while  the 
sheep  have  wandered  off  to  the  other  side 
of  the  hill  for  the  last  bit  of  sunshine. 
I,  too,  have  left  my  oak,  for  I  believe  I  can 
think  better  moving  over  soft  earth. 
Coming  by  the  spring,  apparently  leaping 
clean  and  clear  from  a  bed  of  great, 
green-leafed  mint,  I  drank  by  lying  down 
flat  on  the  stone  by  the  side  of  the  stream. 
The  water  seemed  like  the  essence  of 
everything  beautiful  and  cool  and  fresh 
of  the  whole  springtime  world.  The  clear, 
deep  sky;  the  fresh  soil;  the  invigorating 
green  life  of  the  grass  and  trees!  All  of 
this  should  clear  my  mind  of  doubt  and 
bring  understanding. 

Here  in  the  denser  woods  the  soil  is 
[  109] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

black,  odorous,  and  soft.  The  grass  is 
less  abundant,  but  the  hue  is  a  fresher 
green.  The  air  is  lighter  and  the  dense 
shade  rests  every  sense.  Great  thickets 
of  tall  blackberry  briars  grow  here  and 
there.  An  occasional  rotten  log,  covered 
with  damp  smelling  moss,  lies  half  im 
bedded  in  last  year's  leaves.  Now  and 
then  a  chipmunk  darts  playfully  about 
the  trunk  of  the  same  tree  that  a  red 
headed  woodpecker  is  thumping  full  of 
holes  at  its  dizzy  top.  These  are  the 
voices  of  the  woods,  and  they  whisper 
faith,  hope,  love.  ...  Of  a  surety  the 
woods  have  made  it  clear.  There's  some 
reason  —  my  lady  knows  —  and  it  will 
come  out  good  and  well.  When  the  arti 
ficial  things  of  living  become  hopelessly 
tangled,  then  lie  closer  to  the  earth. 
Nature  is  a  loadstone  for  troubles. 
After  all  the  heart  of  me  is  glad  with 

the  joy  of  living.    Again  I  may  go  into 
[no] 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

the  green  old  garden  with  my  roses,  my 
sun-dial,  and  the  memories  of  the  elder 
days.  Pure  from  ungentleness,  I  may  sit 
upon  this  rock-hewn  seat  of  my  youth 
and  look  out  upon  the  blossoms  and 
the  trees  a-bloom  in  the  field,  seeing 
in  it  all  naught  save  beauty  and  the 
joy  therein.  The  past  is  wrought  of 
goodly  memories,  now  the  dream-stuff 
of  my  declining  years.  The  future  is 
built  strongly  of  greathearted  happiness 
born  of  the  love  that  understands,  is  full 
of  kindly  sympathy,  and  knows  not  the 
sting  of  doubt. 

Please  God,  give  us  more  love  that 
trusts. 

n 

For  the  first  time  in  all  of  my  life  I  feel 
that  I  am  an  old  man.  My  age  seems  to 
have  come  on  me  suddenly  like  unto  a 

fever,  and  the  weight  of  it  bears  upon  me. 

[in] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

This  is  because  of  having  built  once  too 
often  the  dream-man  that  experience 
should  have  told  me  was  a  futile  under 
taking.  I  see  that  I  have  been  given  to 
creating  my  own  friends  instead  of  accept 
ing  them  as  they  were  wrought  out  of 
life.  But  enough. 

This  morning  upon  returning  to  the 
mansion  from  my  usual  walk  I  went  into 
the  library  and  sent  for  My  Lady  o'  Roses. 
...  It  has  been  said  that  there  is  no 
woman  like  unto  another;  but  I,  who 
have  at  least  known  one  of  them  from 
the  de  profundis  of  despair  to  the  height 
of  passion's  bliss,  know  that  of  women 
there  are  two  kinds  only.  There  are 
those  who  are  steadfast  and  those  who 
are  not;  those  who  are  proud  and  others 
that  are  humble ;  those  who  are  good  and 
those  who  are  wicked ;  yet  all  of  these  are 
but  two  women;  there  be  women  who 
have  the  gentle  mercy  of  forgiveness  in 

«!> 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

the  hearts  of  them,  and  there  be  others 
who  have  it  not. 

Marcia  entered  the  room  with  an  air  of 
mystification  about  her  every  movement. 
There  was  wonder  in  her  eyes  and  a  look 
upon  her  face  born  half  of  surprise  and 
half  of  timidity.  In  truth  it  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  had  been  summoned 
in  this  manner.  She  had  never  seemed 
quite  so  beautiful,  quite  so  palpitating 
with  the  vigour  of  health.  I  was  of  half 
a  mind  to  save  her  the  pain  of  discussing 
with  her  so  personal  affair  as  the  infidelity 
of  Louis.  Suddenly  —  I  had  not  even 
said  "Good  Morning"  —she  exclaimed: 

"  You  have  guessed  it.  .  .  .  I  knew  that 
you  would.  ...  I  couldn't  tell  you  that 
which  was  not  all  mine  to  tell."  All  of 
this  was  timorously,  falteringly  said.  Then 
impulsively,  "But  —  but  you  will  forgive 
him?"  Eagerly,  pleadingly,  "You  will, 
I  know  that  you  will." 
["3] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

"But  my  lady  —  " 

At  my  words,  and  before  I  could  finish, 
her  very  attitude  bespoke  astonishment. 
Then  near  fainting,  she  fell  into  a  chair. 
I  hastened  toward  her,  but  she  motioned 
me  back  with  a  wave  of  her  hand.  Re 
gaining  her  strength  and  composure  by  a 
most  painful  effort,  she  began  to  talk 
rapidly  and  excitedly  in  a  disconnected 
manner  like  unto  one  who  had  much  to 
tell  and  little  time  for  the  saying  of  it. 

"Listen  to  me!"  she  said,  her  eyes 
snapping  with  indignation  born  of  the 
moment.  "You  must  understand.  .  .  . 
I  knew  him  when  we  were  children.  We 
were  in  the  village  school  at  the  same 
tune.  We  played  and  planned  and  fought 
as  one  —  he  a  vain  youth,  and  I  a  mere 
child.  .  .  .  Then  he  went  away.  I  knew 
about  it  all.  I  watched  him  in  his  career. 
And  oh,  you  cannot  know  the  joy  of 
seeing  my  old  friend  win  success;  you 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

cannot  know  the  anguish  of  a  woman's 
heart  when  the  one  man,  for  her,  proves 
a  weakling.  You  cannot  know,"  she 
sobbed,  "for  to  know  is  to  forgive  and 
understand." 

I  crossed  to  her  side  and,  kneeling,  took 
her  hands,  trembling,  into  my  own. 

"Then  I  heard  him  in  Paris,"  she  con 
tinued,  "before  he  came  here  to  you  and 
the  cottage  in  the  field.  He  explained  it 
all  to  me  and,  though  I  would  not  listen 
then,  I  understand  now.  ...  I  know  all 
and  you  shall  not  judge,"  she  said  fiercely, 
"until  you,  too,  have  heard  him.  ..." 

"I  am  not  the  man,  please  God,  who 
would  deny  any  soul  a  hearing,"  I 
answered. 

"  I  knew  yours  was  a  heart  of  mercy," 
she  replied  gratefully.  "We  women," 
she  continued,  "are  prone  to  forgiving 
overmuch  where  love  is.  But,"  she  said, 
as  if  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  "I  had 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

much  rather  love  a  gentle  man,  withal 
that  many  weaknesses  might  be  his,  than 
one  without  feeling.  I  despise  these  stern, 
just  men.  .  .  .  Yet  Louis  is  not  a  weak 
ling.  ...  He  is  very  human,"  she  said. 

"My  child,"  I  ventured,  "you  have 
seen  little  of  life  and  I've  a  notion  know 
less  of  the  follies  of  men.  Men,  knowing 
a  bit  of  the  weaknesses  that  beset  the 
best  of  us,  usually  love  the  women  they 
fear  to  trust ;  but  marry  those  whom  they 
respect.  You,  my  dear  lady,  will  marry 
where  your  heart  lies,  withal  that  the 
man  may  prove  a  sorry  husband.  Often 
the  men  receiving  the  greatest  love  are 
least  worthy  of  it.  ...  Marcia,  my 
child,"  I  asked,  "who  knows  the  strength 
of  this  man?" 

"Ah,"  she  cried  scornfully,  "you  doubt 
his  being  a  man.  .  .  .  You  who  do  not 
know  the  fight  to  conquer  that  has  been 

his;  you  who  have  only  seen  the  victory; 
[116] 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

you  would  damn  him  because  of  his  for- 
getfulness.  ...  He  is  strong,"  she  said 
firmly,  as  if  I  had  said  some  word  to  the 
contrary.  "He  has  seen  and  suffered, 
sinking  to  the  very  depth  of  despair;  yet 
he  has  battled  with  pain  and  risen  to  the 
heights.  ...  He  is  like  Dante.  He  has 
lived  in  the  very  meanest  hell  and  passed 
through  it  to  paradise.  .  .  .  Ah,  my  good 
friend,  you  have  suffered,  but  you  have 
never  been  degraded.  Your  sorrow  be 
came  a  great  strength  to  you ;  why  cannot 
sin  —  these  mistakes  of  life  —  purify? 
.  .  .  Believe  me,  this  man  is  worthy  of 
your  respect,  your  confidence,  and  your 
love." 

"But,  Marcia,  after  knowing  all  of 
this,"  I  said  in  all  gentleness,  "you  may 
love  him,  but  can  you  trust?" 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  every  bit  of  her 
pretty  body  a-tremble.  "I  love  him!" 
she  cried.  "I  love  him  more  than  you, 
["7] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

than  all  of  life,  than  the  memory  of  my 
mother.  ...  I  do  not  care  what  he  has 
done.  It  would  matter  not  if  he  had 
committed  every  crime  known  to  men. 
I  care  not  whom  he  may  have  sinned 
against.  It  all  amounts  to  that,"  and  she 
snapped  her  fingers  'most  in  my  face. 
"There  is  but  one  meaning  in  all  of  the 
past  years,  but  one  in  all  the  future  may 
bring,  and  that  is,  I  love  this  man !  And 
loving  him  there  is  naught  else  but  con 
fidence.  It  is  true  that  I  doubted  him 
once,  as  you  shall  hear,  but  never  again." 

"Oh,  my  poor  child,"  I  cried  in  pity  for 
her,  "and  he  loves  this  other  woman." 

She  stood  white  and  rigid,  with  horror 
and  fear  written  upon  her  troubled  face. 

"This  —  this  Her  Majesty  the  Queen," 
I  continued  as  well  as  I  might.  Then, 
as  is  the  manner  of  her  sex,  my  lady  fell 
all  a-heap  upon  the  floor,  and,  pillowing 

her  head  upon  her  arm,  sobbed  piteously. 

[n81 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

I  kneeled  beside  her. 

"Of  a  surety,  Marcia,"  I  said,  "thou 
art  thy  mother's  daughter.  ...  I,  too, 
love  Louis." 

I  raised  my  lady's  face,  so  full  of  the 
haunting  memories  of  the  long-time  ago, 
and  kissed  the  sorrow  from  her  eyes. 

Then  she  sighed  very  tenderly  and 
smiled  way  down  into  my  heart. 

"I'm  so  relieved,"  she  whispered. 

"Relieved?  Please  explain,  dear  Mar 
cia." 

"Why,  I  am  Her  Majesty  the  Queen," 
she  laughed.  "  It  was  your  Lady  o'  Roses 
that  wouldn't  have  him  a  few  months  ago 
in  Paris.  .  .  .  That's  why  we  both  came 
here  —  not  knowing  one  of  the  other's 
coming  —  to  get  over  it,  you  know.  .  .  . 
I  thought  you'd  guessed  about  us,  and 
that  he'd  written  you  about  his  going 
away  and  that  you  were  quite  angry  with 
him  for  not  standing  by  me  anyhow!" 
[119] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

"Louis  going  away  to  stay?"  I  asked. 

"We  quarrelled  and  I  sent  him,"  she 
sobbed,  once  more  pillowing  her  head 
upon  her  arm.  "He  returns  in  a  day, 
but  to  leave  again." 

After  a  little  while  we  went  into  the 
garden  among  my  roses,  for  there  my 
thoughts  are  always  kindliest  toward  all 
men.  .  .  .  These  are  youthful  days  be 
cause  they  are  springtime  days.  One's 
life  must  be  so.  Forget  not  the  blue  of 
the  sky  and  the  perfume  of  the  rose  and 
the  heart  of  life  will  be  red  for  you.  .  .  . 
Ah,  Dear  Heart  of  the  long  ago,  these 
children  need  such  stuff  as  love. 


Ill 

Of  a  surety  I  have  learned  that  a  most 
insignificant  whim,  betimes,  will  ruin  the 
sweetness  of  a  whole  life's  love.  We  live 
as  if  this  were  just  the  first  of  many  lives 

[120] 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

and  with  the  presumption  that  we  shall 
be  enabled  to  correct  the  mistakes  made 
here  when  we  have  won  our  immortality. 
It  has  taken  me  most  of  a  lifetime  to 
learn  that  the  only  heaven  we  may  know 
hereafter  is  the  Love  we  take  with  us  into 
the  Afterwhile.  Can  I  know  a  more 
joyous  eternity,  dear  Girl  o'  my  Golden 
Age,  than  the  love  which  first  awakened 
my  soul  to  the  sweetness  of  your  presence? 

So  it  was  with  My  Lady  o'  Roses  and 
the  lad  of  her  heart's  desire.  Because 
work  and  sorrow,  fame,  and  the  illicit 
pleasures,  ofttimes  born  therewith,  came 
between  a  careless  boy  and  the  girl  of  his 
youthful  dreams,  she  doubted,  when  once 
again  the  light  of  her  eyes  awakened  the 
old  passion,  the  sincerity  of  the  words  he 
would  speak  to  her  heart. 

The  story  is  best  told  by  the  letter 
Marcia  trusted  to  the  heart  of  me : 

"My  dear  Marcia,"  he  wrote,  "to-night 

[121] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

finds  me  once  more  attempting  life  - 
this  time  for  you.  The  old  reckless  joy 
of  living  has  lost  its  savour  and  the  past 
is  dead.  .  .  .  Ah,  Marcia,  when  I  met 
you  on  a  day  in  the  Paris  we  love  too 
well,  I  knew  that  I  had  not  chosen  the 
most  blessed  gift  of  life.  There  had  been 
moments  of  fear  before  —  the  sight  of 
your  face  dispelled  all  doubt.  .  .  .  How 
kindly  you  received  me !  How  generously 
you  overlooked  my  seeming  negligence! 
Miladi,  you  cannot  know  from  these 
words  how  beautiful  you  were  to  me 
when  I  found  you.  You  were  a  woman, 
full  grown,  with  all  the  wonder-waking 
beauty  that  nature  could  bestow  upon 
you. 

"Then  there  hovered  about  it  all,  angel- 
like,  the  pristine  freshness  and  innocence 
of  the  girl  you  were  in  the  dear  old  days. 
And  I  knew  that  I  loved  you  the  first 
moment  you  lifted  your  eyes  to  mine  and 

[122] 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

their  gentle  light  shone  from  beneath 
their  lashes.  I  pressed  your  hand  - 
perhaps  it  may  have  been  uncalled  for  - 
and  the  crimson  that  stole  across  your 
cheeks  and  mounted  to  your  brow  was 
as  that  of  the  dawn  flushing  the  eastern 
sky.  Your  lips  trembled.  Then  I  loved 
you.  Oh,  those  months  we  spent  as  old 
friends.  I  was  almost  your  lover  again 
when  my  life  —  it  came  between  me  and 
all  that  was  good  in  you.  And  you  are 
all  good!  Well,  it  all  may  have  seemed 
worse  to  you  than  it  really  was,  though  I 
will  not  defend  one  hour  of  it. 

"The  world  had  given  me  fame  and  in 
so  doing  opened  the  door  of  my  private 
life.  The  door  to  that  which  was  not  for 
other  eyes  than  my  own.  They,  the  world 
I  mean,  knew  it  all.  (Thank  God,  that  is 
now  almost  forgotten.)  But  when  I  told 
you,  and  asked  you  to  become  my  wife, 
you  remembered  it.  At  first,  when  you 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

placed  your  hand  in  mine  and  gave  me 
the  sweetness  of  your  lips  to  kiss,  you 
forgot,  for  love  is  made  of  such  stuff. 
Then,  having  seen  something  and  heard 
more,  you  ask  me  of  the  past.  How, 
in  the  light  of  your  eyes  could  I  deny  the 
truth.  The  dear  eyes  that  I  loved  and  do 
love,  with  all  of  the  tender,  faithful  pas 
sion  of  a  lifetime.  For  I  do  know  that  I 
loved  you  almost  all  of  my  life  and  that 
God  placed  the  love  there  for  you,  and 
you  alone,  knowing  it  was  for  you,  long 
before  I  ever  knew  the  beauty  of  your 
face. 

"Shall  I  ever  forget  the  painful  horror 
in  the  expression  of  your  eyes  and  blanched 
cheeks  when  I  said  to  you,  though  my 
heart  most  broke  in  the  telling,  'Yes, 
Marcia,  I  forgot  the  love'?  Never!  And 
yet,  like  the  woman  I  love,  you  forgave. 
...  So  you  sent  me  to  become  a  man. 

A  pure,  clean-souled  man;  and  already  I 
[124] 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

feel  the  power  that  God  and  you  have 
wrought  in  me. 

"As  for  the  future,  there  is  but  one 
thing  that  counts.  The  wealth,  the  fame, 
the  possible  immortality  --  but  trifles 
these.  ...  It  is  the  love  that  is  in  my 
heart  for  you  that  I  cannot  crush.  It  is 
there,  a  flame  burning  steadfastly,  faith 
fully,  and  without  shadow  in  its  intensity. 
This  love  —  the  light  in  my  heart  that 
burns  for  you  —  I  cannot  help.  God 
lighted  it,  and,  it  being  Divine,  He  cannot 
destroy  that  which  is  a  part  of  Him.  .  .  . 
But  you,  who  have  nothing  left  of  the 
man  you  loved,  will  not  be  shadowed  by 
the  ghost  of  a  dream.  This  dream-man 
of  yours  did  not  prove  true  and  he  will 
pass  from  your  life.  .  .  .  Then  out  of  the 
little  joy  and  much  of  pain  that  I  have 
brought,  there  will  remain  but  a  memory. 
In  tune  that  may  be  softened  by  pity  and 
mellowed  into  forgetfulness.  .  .  .  Yes, 
[125] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

you  will  forget.  .  .  .  But  I  —  I,  who  have 
not  been  wronged,  but  have  been  given 
so  much  to  remember  —  so  much  to  wor 
ship  —  will  go  out  into  the  nameless 
world  and  offer  my  happiness  as  an  obla 
tion  for  an  outraged  love.  .  .  .  You  never 
said  whether  you  would  become  my  wife, 
or  that  you'd  ever  see  me  again.  You 
promised  nothing.  But  whatever  the  end 
may  be  I  want  you  to  know  that  if  my 
name  possesses  aught  of  cleanness,  or  my 
heart  of  kindliness,  or  my  soul  of  gentle 
ness,  that  you,  dear  friend,  are  the  sweet 
cause  of  it  all. 

"Thank  you,  thank  God,  I  bow  my 
head.  I  am  happy  in  that  I  have  learned 
how  to  wait  —  to  wait  for  that  which  is 
greater  than  life  and  as  sweet  as  the 
mercy  of  God.  To  wait  for  your  love. 
"I  am  always  thy 

"Louis." 

*       •*         *•         *         •*         •* 
[126] 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

When  next  the  light  of  my  lady's  eyes 
made  gladsome  the  heart  of  this  lad  he 
was  hiding  from  the  curious  eyes  of  the 
world,  down  among  the  roses  at  the 
cottage  in  the  field. 


IV 

To-night  I  learned  from  my  lady's  lips 
the  story  of  her  quarrelling  with  Louis. 

"I  owe  it  to  you,"  she  said,  "to  tell  you 
all  -  all  that  I  may." 

"All  that  you  may,"  I  answered,  "for 
what  is  not  yours  to  give,  I  would  not 
have." 

When  I  left  them,  after  the  telling  of 
his  story  concerning  Her  Majesty  the 
Queen,  they  sat  talking  until  the  dawn 
had  crimson-patched  the  eastern  sky.  At 
first,  these  two  who  knew  a  deal  more, 
one  of  the  other,  than  I  had  ever  dreamed 
in  my  wildest  imagining,  parried  lightly 
[127] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

like  swordsmen  at  play.  But  the  white 
light  of  the  springtime  moon,  with  the 
delectable  odour  of  the  trees  a-blossoming, 
is  not  given  to  causing  the  young  heart 
oj  love  to  trifle  for  long.  Thus  it  was, 
forgetful  of  the  past  and  oblivious  of  the 
future,  only  bound  by  the  soft  odours  of 
the  night,  that  my  lady  and  Louis  thought 
and  said  things  that  we,  too,  have  whis 
pered  many's  the  time  by  the  dial  in  the 
green  old  garden.  .  .  .  Marcia  was  like 
unto  one  glorified.  There  was  the  radiant 
bliss  of  a  new-found  trust  in  the  beauty 
of  her  eyes ;  the  full  lips  bespoke  much  of 
passion  and  a  bit  of  fear;  while  every 
movement  told  of  the  abandon  of  a  love 
that  finds  its  most  wonder-waking  happi 
ness  in  the  joy  of  being  loved.  .  .  .  Ah, 
my  Drucilla,  how  very  close  betimes  do 
the  lips  of  passion  draw  one  to  another 
never,  never,  after  all,  to  know  the 

sweetness  of  Love.  .  .  . 
[128] 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

Thus  it  was  that  Marcia  sighed,  moved 
uneasily,  like  one  not  knowing  well  the 
venture,  and  said : 

"And  now,  my  lad  o'  the  violin,  you 
will  go  back  to  your  work,  forgetting  the 
song  of  Margot  o'  the  Crimson  Lips,  and 
become  a  famous  man?" 

"My  lady,"  he  answered,  "in  fleeing 
from  sorrow  I  ran  a-deep  into  happiness. 
In  attempting  to  get  away  from  you  I 
found  you.  Does  it  not  look  as  if  God 
had  been  more  than  kind?  .  .  .  Besides, 
of  a  surety  there  is  Margot,  the  mother  o' 
me,  whom  I  must  not  forget.  You  know, 
dear  Lady  o'  Roses,  what  will  allow  me  to 
once  more  play  the  violin's  song  that  gave 
me  my  mother  in  the  garden  in  Picardy 
long  time  ago.  Will  you  give  it  me  now?  " 

"When  you  have  proven  yourself  to 
be  a  man  worthy  of  life  and  of  love," 
she  whispered. 

"Marcia,"  he  said,  as  she  arose  and 

[129] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

stood  before  him,  "I  see  no  reason  why 
I  should  return  to  the  environment  that 
once  came  near  wrecking  my  life  by 
causing  me  to  believe  I  might  live  without 
your  love.  .  .  .  Why  should  I  return  to 
that  which  came  near  unto  robbing  me  of 
my  birthright?  ...  If  you  would  only 
trust  me  now  I  am  content  to  remain 
forever  in  the  old  rose-garden  with  love. 
I  have  enough  and  more  for  each  of  us. 
I  want  to  make  you  my  wife  —  to  live 
here  in  our  cottage  in  the  field.  ...  I 
have  here  learned  what  I  believed  to  be 
true  there  in  Paris  a  little  while  ago  - 
that  love  —  " 

"Ah,  that  is  just  it,"  she  interrupted. 
"  You  have  conquered  here  and  you  must 
return.  There  is  nothing  here  other  than 
love,  except  the  roses,  and  they  are  its 
friends.  There,  in  the  garish  light  of 
fevered  pleasures,  love,  remaining  loyal, 

would  of  a  surety  prove  its  endurance. 
[130] 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

Arcady  is  a-bloom  with  roses  for  a  love 
that  has  proven  true  in  the  market-place. 
When  you  have  stood  the  test  there  then 
you  may  come  back  to  Arcady  —  I'll  be 
in  the  rose-garden  by  the  dial." 

"Then,"  she  continued,  "a  man  to  be 
worthy  of  life  must  do  things.  He  must, 
of  all  else,  never  neglect  a  gift  that  is 
God-given.  These  talents  that  are  not  in 
the  reach  of  every  man,  but  belong  only 
to  the  chosen  few,  are  the  gift  of  God.  .  .  . 
You  have  told  me  why  you  gave  up  and 
came  here.  I  admire  your  courage.  .  .  . 
But  can  I  content  myself  with  a  husband 
who  is  an  idler?  I  know  that  you  are 
strong,  but  what  do  I  know  of  your  mettle 
when  put  to  temptation?  I  will  love  my 
husband  for  his  gentleness  and  tenderness ; 
but  I  also  want  to  worship  his  strength  of 
character  and  the  tried  purity  that  purges 
the  dross  and  makes  me  sure  I  am  giving 
my  love  to  a  Man.  .  .  .  You  have  con- 
[131] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

quered  here,  now  you  must  return.  You 
have  been  victorious,  but  you  do  not 
know  yourself  until  you  have  triumphed 
there  in  the  very  face  of  the  enemy.  You 
are  the  victor  here;  win  the  battle  there 
where  a  man  must  needs  show  valour!" 
"But  I  am  tired  of  it  all,"  he  said,  "and 
I  had  thought  to  live  gently  and  peacefully 
here  in  my  cottage  in  the  field,  never  going 
back  to  the  ceaseless  turmoil  of  the  world 
of  people.  .  .  .  Listen,  child,"  he  said 
good-humouredly ;  "  out  there  among  men 
much  that  you  see  is  futile  and  not  worth 
the  price.  There  is  little  else  than  hollow 
mockery,  disappointment  in  ambition, 
slavery,  prostitution,  blasphemy,  and  hy 
pocrisy.  .  .  .  Here  in  our  green  old  gar 
den,  and  under  our  apple  trees,  there  is 
peace  and  understanding.  Our  hearts 
beat  true  and  our  souls  are  genuine. 
This  is  where  the  garden  of  our  hearts 
may  be  kept  free  from  the  poisonous 
[132] 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

weeds,  and,  please  God,  why  must  we 
expose  our  roses  to  the  worms  just  for 
the  experiment  of  seeing  whether  or  no 
the  blossoms  will  be  eaten  away.  .  .  . 
You,  my  lady,  for  the  sake  of  the  ap 
plause,  ask  me  to  fight  a  battle  which, 
the  victory  mine,  would  be  but  empty. 
It  is  asking  me,  as  a  gallant  of  old,  to 
pick  your  glove  from  where  it  was  dropped 
in  the  arena  filled  with  lions.  .  .  .  No," 
he  said  with  hesitance,  "I  do  not  see  that 
it  is  necessary.  ...  I  am  so  sure  of 
myself  here.  Besides,  with  you  as  my 
wife  —  " 

It  was  then  that  he  ceased  to  speak,  for 
my  lady  drew  herself  to  her  full  height; 
tilted  her  head  in  a  fine  scorn  and,  with  a 
deal  of  pride  and  hurt  dignity,  said: 

"Good-night,  sir.  ...  I  do  not  pre 
sume  to  understand  how  a  man  possessing 
so  much  of  greatness  can  be  so  contempt 
ibly  little.  I  —  I,  who  loved  you,  wanted 
[133] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

to  help  you  to  be  worthy  of  life.  Now, 
because  of  a  silly  superstition  —  a  child's 
oath  that  you  will  not  again  play  your 
beloved  violin  until  you  have  won  me, 
you  prostitute  the  gift  of  God  and  bar 
ter  your  manhood.  .  .  .  Good-night.  .  .  . 
The  spirit  of  the  violin  is  indeed  dead. 
...  It  is  unnecessary  that  you  accom 
pany  me  to  my  home.  I  will  go  alone. 
...  A  man  who  will  not  face  a  once- 
conquered  temptation  is  of  a  surety  a 
coward!" 

Louis  sprang  to  his  feet  as  if  someone 
had  slapped  him  in  the  face.  He  turned 
to  her  and  for  a  moment  stared  angrily 
into  the  haughty  eyes  before.  Then, 
dropping  his  head,  and  bowing,  he  said: 

"Forgive  me,  my  lady.  ...  I  was 
wrong.  ...  I  may  be  unworthy  to  walk 
beside  you,  Marcia,  but  it  is  quite  neces 
sary  that  I  see  you  safely  to  the  old 
mansion.  ...  I  will  follow  you." 
[i34] 


MY  LADY  AND  LOVINGKINDNESS 

Thus  they  walked  across  the  field  now 
gray  in  the  mist  of  the  approaching  dawn. 
Silently  they  passed  down  the  path,  over 
the  hedge,  and  she  up  the  steps  and  into 
the  hall  with  never  so  much  as  a  look 
behind.  He  watched  below  until  the 
door  was  closed,  then  trudged  back  across 
the  field,  his  head  bowed  and  his  features 
distorted  with  pain.  Reaching  the  cot 
tage  he  sat  upon  the  steps,  burying  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

It  was  that  morning  I  saw  Louis  leave 
by  the  early  coach  while  My  Lady  o'  Roses 
sent  him  a  silent  good-by  from  behind 
the  blossoming  hedge. 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 


'HINK    of  my  surprise 
last  night  when  Louis 
came   down   to    the 
hedge,  now  one  great 
mass   of  blossoming 
roses,  and  called  to  me. 
When  I  came  out  he  was  standing  with  a 
dozen    or  more   of  the   largest   jacque 
minots  in  his  arms,  and  his  eyes  search 
ing  for  others  that  might  please  his  fancy. 
"You  are  terribly  destructive,  Louis," 
I  said,  with  mock  ill-humour. 
[139] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

"I'll  leave  it  to  you,  my  old  gentleman 
of  the  mansion,  if  I  mayn't  cut  every  rose 
on  the  hedge  if  it  pleases  me.  Come,  I'm 
asking  a  favour  —  no  questions,  if  you 
please  --  and  I'm  wondering  if  you'll  do 
it?" 

"Anything,"  I  replied,  "except  to  foster 
quarrels  between  very  thoughtless  chil 
dren." 

"Oh,  you've  heard  then?" 

I  nodded  my  head  wisely. 

"It's  only  as  peacemaker,"  he  said. 

1  'With  all  of  the  heart  o'  me,"  I  an 
swered. 

"  Well,  you  see,  I'm  in  my  own  country 
here  this  side  the  hedge.  I've  positive 
orders  to  keep  off  the  enemy's  grounds. 
I  hope  I'm  not  presuming  in  thinking 
that  you  are  willing  to  call  the  roses 
neutral?" 

"For  this  occasion,  at  least,"  I  smiled. 

"I  was  sure  you  would,"  he  answered. 
[  140] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

"Now  I've  been  cityward  these  few  days 
doing  business  things  and  incidentally 
purchasing  a  costume  for  the  ball  that's  to 
be  one  evening  hence.  After  that  is  over 
I'm  thinking  I  shall  leave  immediately. 
But  it  is  this  I  would  like  you  to  do :  Bear 
Marcia  these  roses,  that  are  red  like  her 
mouth,  and  ask  her  for  me  if  her  Lad  o' 
the  Violin  is  still  expected  to  dance  the 
minuet  on  the  morrow  evening?  Then 
will  you  come  to  me?"  he  said. 

Quite  unknown  to  either  of  us  Marcia 
had  gone  into  the  village  a-visiting,  so  it 
was  'most  an  hour  later  when  I  returned 
to  the  hedge  to  find  Louis  had  left.  I 
walked  up  the  path  toward  the  cottage. 
As  I  approached,  the  delicate  perfume  of 
blossoming  honey-suckle  reached  me  and 
I  saw  that  the  entire  front  of  his  home 
was  a  mass  of  vines  and  bloom.  The 
carpet  of  grass  made  it  quite  possible  to 
reach  the  porch  without  making  the 
[141] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

slightest  noise  whereby  my  presence  might 
become  known.  As  I  hesitated  a  moment, 
looking  for  the  entrance  in  the  thickly  run 
vines,  I  was  startled  by  hearing  the  soft 
tones  of  a  violin  stealing  from  without 
the  very  room  that  always  had  been  closed 
even  to  those  who  loved  him  best.  The 
music  was  scarcely  audible,  yet  clear  and 
sweet  and  perfect.  Ah,  my  Drucilla,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  very  spirit  of  your  love 
called  to  me  through  the  violin-song  that 
came  a-stirring  the  heart  o'  me  with 
tenderness  and  the  longing  for  old  love- 
moments  'most  forgot.  It  seemed  to  cry 
a  name  in  sweet  helplessness  and  in  the 
agony  of  hope  long  deferred.  Then  it 
became  soft  and  luxuriously  coaxing  as 
if  appealing  to  every  mood,  every  passion 
that  might  dwell  within  the  heart  of  a 
mistress.  ...  In  a  moment  I  understood. 
This  was  the  music  which  drew  the 
Dream-maker  over  the  wall  into  a  garden 
[142] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

that  he  might  kiss  the  mouth  of  Margot 
o'  the  Crimson  Lips,  and  the  name  it  now 
cried  was,  "Marcia." 

Just  as  silently  I  stole  back  as  far  as 
the  hedge.  Then,  as  bravely  as  an  old 
man  may,  I  walked  toward  the  cottage 
for  a  second  tune  whistling  a  bit  boister 
ously.  Louis  met  me  at  the  porch  and, 
to  my  astonishment,  led  me  directly  to 
the  room  in  the  wing  which  had  never 
before  been  opened  to  me.  When  I 
entered  Louis  was  greatly  pleased  at  the 
surprise  which  swept  over  my  face. 

The  room  was  elegantly  and  tastefully 
furnished  for  the  use  of  a  woman.  From 
the  large  mirrors  to  the  fairy-like  curtains 
of  the  bed,  the  pictures  on  the  wall,  the 
articles  of  toilet  upon  the  bureau,  and  the 
delicate  perfume  of  the  roses  that  Louis 
had  placed  in  a  huge  vase  on  top  of  a 
mahogany  writing  desk,  all  spoke  and 
sung  and  smelled  of  woman.  A  woman 
[143] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

of  breeding,  refinement,  and  used  to  a 
deal  of  luxuries. 

"When  did  you  do  this?"  I  asked. 

"When  the  cottage  was  built,"  he 
answered. 

"  How  have  you  kept  it  so  ? "  I  ex 
claimed  in  surprise. 

He  led  me  to  the  window  which  looked 
out  upon  the  field,  the  trees  and  my 
blossoming  hedge  of  roses. 

"You  know  much  of  the  story,"  he 
said.  When  I  built  this  cottage  in  the 
field  I  prepared  this  little  room  for  the 
truest  woman  God  ever  gave  the  world. 
The  greatest  pleasure  of  my  life  has  been 
the  few  moments  each  day  I  have  come 
here  to  keep  it  ready.  It  has  stood  as  a 
symbol  of  my  heart  and  I  have  sacredly 
kept  it  waiting  for  the  coming  of  Her 
Majesty  the  Queen.  ...  As  it  is  to-day 
it  will  ever  remain  as  a  shrine  forsaken, 
awaiting  the  re-lighting  of  the  flame.  In 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

it  is  my  life's  love,  dear  friend,  and  death 
will  find  it  here  ever  hoping  for  the  coming 
of  that  which  I  have  told  her  is  dearer 
than  life  and  as  sweet  as  the  mercy  of 
God  —  the  coming  of  her  love." 

"And  the  violin?"  I  asked,  pointing 
toward  the  instrument  lying  in  its  case 
on  the  floor. 

"Ah,  I  see  she  has  told  you  that,  too. 
Well,  it  would  not  have  been  at  all  to 
Miladi's  liking,  when  she  said  me  '  no,' 
had  I  told  her  that  I  could  not  believe  her 
speaking  from  her  heart.  So,  in  keeping 
with  the  legend  of  Margot,  I  refused  to 
play  to  her,  but  never  in  my  heart  of 
hearts  have  I  ceased  to  hope  that  on  a 
day  she  would  come  to  me.  So  all  of  the 
tune,  in  secret  here,  have  I  played  the 
call  of  the  Crimson  Lips." 

"Thank  God,"  I  whispered. 

"The  message?"  he  asked  eagerly  upon 
hearing  my  exclamation. 
[i45l 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

"My  Lady  o'  Roses  said  'Come,'"  I 
answered. 

He  bowed  his  head  within  his  hands 
and  shook  with  sobs  like  unto  a  child. 


n 

This  morning  is  of  a  surety  fraught 
with  the  perfume  of  olden  tunes  and  day 
dreams  of  roses  yet  to  unfold  in  the 
garden  of  my  memory.  Last  night,  only 
last  night,  Drucilla,  the  violins  were  a-tune 
for  my  lady's  ball.  The  guests  came  all 
attired  in  the  habit  of  a  half-century  ago 
-  the  costumes  of  their  Golden  Age. 
Not  since  my  youth  —  when  our  hearts 
beat  young,  Oh  my  Drucilla  —  have  I 
seen  in  the  ballroom  so  vast  an  array  of 
beauty. 

There  was  a  bit  of  lilac  in  the  air 
mingled  with  the  odour  of  delicate  laces 

and  the  gowns  of  women.    In  the  glow 
[146] 


BACK  TO  ARC  AD  Y 

of  the  half-lights  the  assembly  seemed  to 
be  aflame  with  white,  round  arms  and 
shoulders;  full,  red  kissing-lips,  that  told 
of  strong  desires,  pouted  in  sweet  petu 
lance;  and  dark  impassioned  eyes,  like 
shimmering  jewels,  flashed  from  beneath 
fair  brows.  Then  there  were  men,  refined 
and  thoughtful,  bending  to  the  wish  of 
the  lips  of  women,  while  others  leered  at 
eyes  that  dared  not  look  them  back. 
Here  and  there  the  beauty  of  a  woman's 
face,  more  rare  than  those  surrounding 
her,  bloomed  softly  like  unto  a  new-blown 
rose.  Of  a  surety  Drucilla,  there  was 
equally  the  tragedy  in  the  night  of  music 
as  there  was  joy.  A  sort  of  sweet  melan 
choly  tragedy  is  our  Doctor  Henri  Blossom 
and  his  Barbara.  They  sat  near  me 
talking  in  undertones,  undisturbed. 

Our  Lady  o'  Roses  sat  yonder  talking 
to  young  Henri  Blossom  and  I  could  see 
the  delectable  curves  of  cheeks  aglow  and 
[147] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

the  soft  movement  of  her  body.  She  was 
wonderfully  beautiful  and  of  the  type  that 
seems  to  draw  men  against  their  wills. 
So  seductively  beautiful  was  my  lady  of 
the  velvet  gown,  that  the  warm  fragrance 
of  her  breath  seemed  to  come  to  me  like 
unto  the  stealing  tones  of  the  violins. 

Perhaps  an  hour  later  I  stood  just 
without  the  open  casement  and  watched 
a  picture,  it  seemed,  that  stepped  from 
without  my  youth  and  stood  in  memory 
before  me.  Again  a  tall  and  manly 
youth,  clad  completely  in  white  satin, 
leading  the  minuet  with  a  fair  and  lovely 
girl  whose  eyes,  glancing  furtively  from 
beneath  her  powdered  hah-,  danced  quite 
as  much  as  her  dainty  toes.  The  rosy  tips 
of  the  fingers  of  her  right  hand  were 
held  tightly  in  the  gentleman's,  while 
with  the  other  she  coquettishly  lifted 
her  silken  skirts  just  enough  to  disclose 

at  each  step  a  bit  of  an  alluring  ankle. 
[148] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

The  youth's  kindly  face  was  flushed 
with  the  wonder  of  her  beauty  as  he 
courteously  watched  each  graceful  move 
ment  of  her  supple  little  body.  Once 
she  thought  his  fingers  tightened  about 
her  own  (0  memories  that  burn!),  but 
when  she  glanced  shyly  toward  his  sober 
face  no  signs  of  mischief  lingered  there. 
They  had  danced  to  the  fartherest  end  of 
the  ballroom,  when  she  ventured: 

"Seems  I  heard  somewhere,  Master 
Louis,  that  you  were  again  to  leave 
Kentucky." 

"You  know  as  well  as  I,"  he  replied, 
"  that  I  am  going  East  to-morrow  on  the 
coach  that  leaves  at  noon." 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  arching  her 
pretty  eyebrows. 

"If  you  were  really  regretting  it,"  he 
replied  earnestly,  "you  would  not  let  me 
go." 

"Would  not  let  you  go?" 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  please  to  stay.  Won't  you?" 
she  pleaded  petulantly. 

He  turned  his  face  eagerly  and  looked 
into  her  eyes.  "Do  you  mean  it?"  he 
whispered.  "Why  would  you  have  me 
stay?" 

"You'll  make  one  more  at  my  next 
ball,"  she  laughed  gayly,  giving  her  head 
a  petulant  toss. 

To  this  Louis  made  no  reply.  The  lady 
gazed  at  him  with  laughing,  questioning 
eyes.  Perhaps  it  was  the  look  upon  his 
face  —  perhaps  the  beauty  of  the  night 
time.  Her  voice  softened. 

"You  are  dreaming,  lad?"  she  ventured. 

"I  was  remembering,  I  think,"  was  the 
reply. 

"About  what,  Louis?" 

"A  little  lady  I  knew  long  years  ago." 

"Tell  me  about  her." 

"I  remember  one  day  —  the  two  of  us 
[150] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

were  little  fellows  then  —  coming  home 
from  school  with  her.  I  had  a  big  red 
apple  —  and  she  a  bunch  of  hyacinths,  I 
believe.  When  we  reached  her  gate  we 
stood  for  a  moment;  then  I  suddenly 
thrust  the  apple  into  her  hands  and  she 
the  flowers  into  mine,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
and  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  and  ..." 

"And  she  kissed  me  and  ran  as  fast  as 
her  chubby  little  legs  could  carry  her, 
toward  the  house." 

"I  didn't.     I  just  ..." 

"Who  said  anything  about  what  you 
did?  .  .  .  And  she  left  me  as  happy, 
standing  there,  as  a  wood-thrush  in 
Maytime. 

"There  was  another  time,"  continued 
Louis,  "when  she  used  to  climb  the  apple 
tree  with  me  and  we  rode  swinging 
branches  for  horses.  I  remember  how 
the  pink  and  white  blossoms  used  to  fall 
[151] 


BACK  TO  ARC  AD  Y 

about  her,  lodging  in  her  hair  and  on  her 
cheeks,  though  you  couldn't  see  the 
flowers  lying  there,  both  being  the  same 
colour.  Once  she  begged  me  to  climb 
out  on  her  branch  so  it  would  swing 
better;  and  when  I  was  about  half-way 
out  it  began  to  crack  and  the  little  girl  to 
scream,  so  I  dropped  that  she  might  not 
fall." 

"And  how  I  did  wish  I  had  let  go 
instead!"  whispered  my  lady. 

He  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  of 
utter  surprise  upon  his  face,  and,  as  if 
he  had  failed  to  understand  her,  continued : 

"When  the  doctor  had  set  my  broken 
arm  and  stitched  the  cut  in  my  face  - 
you  might  see  the  scar  if  you  looked  - 
she  used  to  come  and  sit  by  me  hour 
after  hour  and  tell  me  how  sorry  she  was. 
And  one  time,  when  mother  wasn't  look 
ing,  she  kissed  the  wound,  and  it  never 
hurt  me  after  that.     Since  then  I  have 
[152] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

always  been  glad  —  so  glad,  I  fell  that 
day." 

Then  neither  spoke  a  word  for  some 
time,  and  the  music,  each  knew,  was 
almost  over.  The  girl  had  become  serious 
and  the  man  seemed  to  be  doing  the  dally 
ing  ...  As  they  passed  a  shaded  open 
door  the  moonlight  filtered  through  the 
trees,  rested  a  moment  upon  my  lady's 
outstretched,  pitying  hand,  and  played  in 
the  tangles  of  her  hair.  From  the  trees 
came  the  opulent  smell  of  blossoms  to 
mingle  with  the  odour  of  roses.  ...  At 
length  she  murmured: 

"It  was  cruel  of  you  to  bring  back  to 
me  those  old  tunes." 

"Well,"  he  replied,  much  more  gently, 
"  I  shall  tell  you  only  one  other,  and  that 
is  far  more  tender  than  all  that  has  gone 
before.  That  is,  if  you  will  permit  me?" 

"You  may,"  she  answered. 

"It  isn't  long,"  he  said.  "Once  upon 
[i53] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

a  time,  long  after,  when  we  were  older, 
just  when  she  had  grown  into  a  wonder 
fully  good  and  beautiful  woman,  we  rested 
on  a  rock-hewn  seat  in  a  green  old  garden 
of  roses,  and  I  told  her  the  stories  of  our 
lives  as  I  have  to-night.  .  .  .  Then  I  told 
her  I  ...  I  whispered  something  else  to 
her  .  .  .  something  I  have  not  told  to 
night." 

Here  he  hesitated  a  moment  and,  dole 
fully  shaking  his  head,  continued:  "And 
now,  as  then,  she  will  not  have  mercy  - 

"And  you,"  interrupted  the  girl,  "swore 
you  would  leave  for  ever." 

"She  told  me  she  did  not  care,"  he  re 
plied,  as  they  stopped  by  the  open  door 
and  the  music  ceased. 

Then  he  led  her  out  upon  the  wide  old 
porch  under  the  vines  where  the  moon 
light  filtered  through,  and  standing  very 
near  to  my  lady,  lifted  her  hand  very  ten 
derly  and  pressed  each  finger  to  his  lips. 
[i54] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

"There  is  but  one  other  hand  in  all 
this  world,"  he  whispered,  "I  love  so 
dearly  as  this." 

Her  face  grew  timid  as  she  lifted  it 
appealingly,  like  unto  a  flower,  toward 
him. 

"And  whose,  Louis,  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"The  other  little  hand  of  the  girl,"  was 
the  answer. 

"It  isn't  even  hers  now,"  came  from 
My  Lady  o'  Roses,  as  she  shyly  thrust  the 
other  hand  into  his  own. 


Ill 

Long  after  the  last  guest  had  departed 
Louis  and  My  Lady  o'  Roses  sat  and 
dreamed  these  dreams  of  young  lovers. 
You  remember  how  the  light  of  the  moon 
caresses  the  languishing  night  and  plays 
seductive  shadows  here  and  there  beneath 
the  trees ;  and  the  perfume  —  how  the 
[155] 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

heavy  odour  of  the  roses  steals  through 
the  air,  voluptuous  and  full  of  passion, 
awakening,  somehow,  memories  of  old 
loves;  and  then,  this,  too,  you  remember, 
how  wonderful  are  the  kisses  of  lips  long 
denied.  Also  there  are  the  vows  —  those 
altars  erected  to  love  whose  pyres  we  light 
while  the  flame  waxes  fierce  for  fear  that 
some  day  it  may  burn  low.  .  .  .  And  the 
shrines,  let  me  not  forget  the  shrines  - 
the  little  candles  we  burn  in  memory  of 
the  saint  days  of  love. 

Then,  after  a  while,  there  came  to  me 
from  without  the  night,  like  unto  the 
perfume  of  roses,  the  soft,  warm  tones 
of  a  lover's  violin  bearing  the  message 
with  which,  years  and  years  ago  in  a 
garden  in  Picardy,  Margot  o'  the  Crimson 
Lips  gave  the  heart  of  her  to  the  Dream- 
maker. 

Each  had  given  up  the  contention  that 
doth  make  of  love  a  slave.  Ah,  my 


BACK  TO  ARCADY 

Drucilla,  at  the  end  of  life  I  have  discov 
ered  that  there  is  but  one  Love  worthy  of 
the  name,  and  fortunate  are  they  who 
experience  it.  Asking  nothing,  it  gives 
all.  Its  joys  are  born  of  service  and  its 
birthright  is  immortality.  All  the  world's 
a-seeking  it,  few  there  be  that  find  it,  for 
it  lies  at  the  end  of  the  Primrose  Path  in 
the  Garden  of  Arcady. 


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